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THE WARDEN 


BY 

ANTHONY TROLLOPE 




NEW-YORK 

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 
1903 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I. Hiram’s Hospital i 

II. The Barchester Reformer lo 

III. The Bishop of Barchester 25 

IV. Hiram’s Bedesmen 40 

V. Dr. Grantly Visits the Hospital 51 

VI. The Warden’s Tea Party 66 

VII. The Jupiter . 81 

VIII. Plumstead Episcopi 88 

IX. The Conference 102 

X. Tribulation 1 14 

XI. Iphigenia 125 

XII. Mr. Bold’s Visit to Plumstead 141 

XIII. The Warden’s Decision 152 

XIV. Mount Olympus 161 

XV. Tom Towers, Dr. Anticant, and Mr. Senti- 

ment 173 

XVI. A Long Day in London 190 

XVII. Sir Abraham Haphazard 207 

XVIII. The Warden is very Obstinate 216 

XIX. The Warden Resigns 223 

XX. Farewell • 236 

XXL Conclusion 250 








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INTRODUCTION. 


These tales were written by the Author, not one im- 
vaediately after another, — not intended to be in any 
sequence one to another except in regard to the two 
first, — with an intention rather that there should be 
no such sequence, but that the stories should go forth 
to the public as being in all respects separate, the 
sequence being only in the Author’s mind. I, the 
Author, had formed for myself so complete a picture 
of the locality, had acquired so accurate a knowledge 
of the cathedral town and the county in which I had 
placed the scene, and had become by a long-con- 
tinued mental dwelling in it so intimate with sundry 
of its inhabitants, that to go back to it and write 
about it again and again have been one of the delights 
of my life. But I had taught myself to believe that 
few novels written in continuation, one of another, 
had been successful. Even Scott, even Thackeray, 
had failed to renew a great interest. Fielding and 
Dickens never ventured the attempt. Therefore, when 
Dr. Thorne, the third of the present series, was sent 
into the world, it was put forth almost with a hope 
that the locality might not be recognised. I hardly 
dared to do more than allude to a few of my old 


xl 


INTRODUCTION. 


characters. Mrs. Proudie is barely introduced, though 
some of the scenes are laid in the city over which she 
reigned. 

And in Framley Parsonage, and in the Last Chron- 
icle, though I had become bolder in going back to the 
society of my old friends, I had looked altogether for 
fresh plots and new interests in order that no intend- 
ing reader might be deterred by the necessity of going 
back to learn what had occurred before. 

But now, when these are all old stories, — not per- 
haps as yet quite forgotten by the readers of the day, 
and to my memory fresh as when they were written, — 
I have a not unnatural desire to see them together, so 
that my records of a little bit of England which I have 
myself created may be brought into one set, and that 
some possible future reader may be enabled to study 
in a complete form the 


CHRONICLES OF BARSETSHIRE. 


THE WARDEN 


CHAPTER I. 

Hiram’s hospital. 

The Rev. Septimus Harding was, a few years since 
a beneficed clergyman residing in the cathedral town 

of ; let us call it Barchester. Were we to name 

Wells or Salisbury, Exeter, Hereford, or Gloucester, it 
might be presumed that something personal was in- 
tended ; and as this tale will refer mainly to the cathe- 
dral dignitaries of the town in question, we are anxious 
that no personality may be suspected. Let us pre- 
sume that Barchester is a quiet town in the West of 
England, more remarkable for the beauty of its cathe- 
dral and the antiquity of its monuments than for any 
commercial prosperity ; that the west end of Barchester 
is the cathedral close, and that the aristopracy of Bar- 
chester are the bishop, dean, and canons, with their 
respective wives and daughters. 

Early in life Mr. Harding found himself located a* 
Barchester. A fine voice and a taste for sacred music 
had decided the position in which he was to exercise 
his calling, and for many years he performed the easy 
but not highly paid duties of a minor canon. At the 


T 


2 


THE WARDEN. 


age of forty a small living in the close vicinity of the 
town increased both his work and his income, and at 
the age of fifty he became precentor of the cathedral. 

Mr. Harding had married early in life, and was the 
father of two daughters. The eldest, Susan, was bora 
soon after his marriage; the other, Eleanor, not till 
ten years later. At the time at which we introduce 
him to our readers he was living as precentor at Bar- 
chester with his youngest daughter, then twenty-four 
years of age ; having been many years a widower, and 
having married his eldest daughter to a son of the 
bishop, a very short time before his installation to the 
office of precentor. 

Scandal at Barchester affirmed that had it not been 
for the beauty of his daughter, Mr. Harding would 
have remained a minor canon; but here probably 
Scandal lied, as she so often does ; for even as a minor 
canon no one had been more popular among his rev- 
erend brethren in the close than Mr. Harding; and 
Scandal, before she had reprobated Mr. Harding for 
being made precentor by his friend the bishop, had 
loudly blamed the bishop for having so long omitted 
to do something for his friend Mr. Harding. Be this 
as it may, Susan Harding,' some twelve years since, 
had married the Rev. Dr. Theophilus Grantly, son of 
the bishop, archdeacon of Barchester, and rector of 
Plumstead Episcopi, and her father became, a few 
months later, precentor of Barchester Cathedral, that 
office being, as is not usual, in the bishop’s gift. 

Now there are peculiar circumstances connected 
with the precentorship which must be explained. In 
the year 1434 there died at Barchester one John 
Hiram, who had made money in the town as a wool- 


Hiram’s hospital. 


3 


stapler, and in his will he left the house in which he 
died and certain meadows and closes near the town, 
still called Hiram’s Butts, and Hiram’s Patch, for the 
support of twelve superannuated wool-carders, all of 
whom should have been born and bred and spent 
their days in Barchester; he also appointed that an 
alms-house should be built for their abode, with a fit- 
ting residence for a warden, which warden was also to 
receive a certain sum annually out of the rents of the 
said butts and patches. He, moreover, willed, having 
had a soul alive to harmony, that the precentor of 
the cathedral should have the option of being also 
w’arden of the alms-houses, if the bishop in each case 
approved. 

From that day to this the charity has gone on and 
prospered — at least the charity had gone on, and the 
estates had prospered. Wool-carding in Barchester 
there was no longer any ; so the bishop, dean, and 
warden, who took it in turn to put in the old men, 
generally appointed some hangers-on of their own; 
worn-out gardeners, decrepit grave-diggers, or octo- 
genarian sextons, who thankfully received a comforta- 
ble lodging and one shilling and fourpence a day, such 
being the stipend to which, under the will of John 
Hiram, they were declared to be entitled. Formerly, 
indeed, — that is, till within some fifty years of the 
present time, — they received but sixpence a day, and 
their breakfast and dinner was found them at a com- 
mon table by the warden, such an arrangement being 
in stricter conformity with the absolute wording of 
old Hiram’s will : but this was thought to be incon- 
venient, and to suit the tastes of neither warden nor 
bedesmen, and the daily one shilling and fourpence 


4 


THE WARDEN. 


was substituted with the common consent of all parties, 
including the bishop and the corporation of Barchester. 

Such was the condition of Hiram’s twelve old men 
when Mr. Harding was appointed warden ; but if they 
may be considered to have been well-to-do in the 
world according to their condition, the happy warden 
was much more so. The patches and butts which, 
in John Hiram’s time, produced hay or fed cows, 
were now covered with rows of houses ; the value of 
the property had gradually increased from year to 
year and century to century, and was now presumed 
by those who knew anything about it to bring in a 
very nice income ; and by some who knew nothing 
about it, to have increased to an almost fabulous ex- 
tent. 

The property was farmed by a gentleman in Bar- 
chester, who also acted as the bishop’s steward, — a 
man whose father and grandfather had been stewards 
to the bishops of Barchester, and farmers of John 
Hiram’s estate. The Chadwicks had earned a good 
name in Barchester; they had lived respected by 
bishops, deans, canons, and precentors ; they had been 
buried in the precincts of the cathedral ; they had 
never been known as griping, hard men, but had 
always lived comfortably, maintained a good house, 
and held a high position in Barchester society. The 
present Mr. Chadwick was a worthy scion of a worthy 
stock, and the tenants living on the butts and patches, 
as well as those on the wide episcopal domains of the 
see, were well pleased to have to do with so worthy 
and liberal a steward. 

For ma^y, many years, — records hardly tell how 
many, prob^-bly from the time when Hiram’s wishes 


Hiram’s hospital. 


5 


had been first fully carried out, — the proceeds of the 
estate had been paid by the steward or farmer to the 
warden, and by him divided among the bedesmen; 
after which division he paid himself such sums as be- 
came his due. Times had been when the poor warden 
got nothing but his bare house, for the patches had 
been subject to floods, and the land of Barchester 
butts was said to be unproductive ; and in these hard 
times the warden was hardly able to make out the 
daily dole for his twelve dependents. But by degrees 
things mended ; the patches were drained, and cottages 
began to rise upon the butts, and the wardens, with 
fairness enough, repaid themselves for the evil days 
gone by. In bad times the poor men had had their 
due, and therefore in good times they could expect no 
more. In this manner the income of the warden had 
increased ; the picturesque house attached to the hos- 
pital had been enlarged and adorned, and the office 
had become one of the most coveted of the snug cler- 
ical sinecures attached to our church. It was now 
wholly in the bishop’s gift, and though the dean and 
chapter, in former days, made a stand on the subject, 
they had thought it more conducive to their honour to 
have a rich precentor appointed by the bishop, than 
a poor one appointed by themselves. The stipend of 
the precentor of Barchester was eighty pounds a year. 
The income arising from the wardenship of the hospital 
was eight hundred, besides the value of the house. 

Murmurs, very slight murmurs, had been heard in 
Barchester, — few indeed, and far between, — that the 
proceeds of John Hiram’s property had not been fairly 
divided : but they can hardly be said to have been f 
such a natiure as to have caused uneasiness to anv on .. 


6 


THE WARDEN. 


Still the thing had been whispered, and Mr. Harding 
had heard it. Such was his character m .Barchester, 
so universal was his popularity, that the very fact of 
his appointment would have quieted louder whispers 
than those which had been heard ; but Mr. Harding 
was an open-handed, just-minded man, and feeling 
that there might be truth in what had been said, ht 
had, on his instalment, declared his intention of adding 
twopence a day to each man’s pittance, making a sum 
of sixty-two pounds eleven shillings and fourpence, 
which he was to pay out of his own pocket. In 
doing so, however, he distinctly and repeatedly ob- 
served to the men, that though he promised for him- 
self, he could not promise for his successors, and that 
the extra twopence could only be looked on as a gift 
from himself, and not from the trust. The bedesmen, 
however, were most of them older than Mr. Harding, 
and were quite satisfied with the security on which 
their extra income was based. 

This munificence on the part of Mr. Harding had 
not been unopposed. Mr. Chadwick had mildly but 
seriously dissuaded him from it ; and his strong-minded 
son-in-law, the archdeacon, the man of whom alone 
Mr. Harding stood in awe, had mgently, nay, vehe- 
mently, opposed so impolitic a concession. But the 
warden had made known his intention to the hospital 
before the archdeacon had been able to interfere, and 
the deed was done. 

Hiram’s Hospital, as the retreat is called, is a pict- 
uresque building enough, and shows the correct taste 
with which the ecclesiastical architects of those days 
were imbued. It stands on the banks of the little river, 
which flows nearly round the cathedral close, being on 


HIRAM S HOSPITAL. 


7 


the side furthest from the town. The London road 
crosses the river by a pretty one-arched bridge, and, 
looking from this bridge, the stranger will see the 
windows of the old men’s rooms, each pair of win- 
dows separated by a small buttress. A broad gravel 
walk runs between the building and the river, which 
is always trim and cared for; and at the end of the 
walk, under the parapet of the approach to the bridge, 
is a large and well-worn seat, on which, in mild 
weather, three or four of Hiram’s bedesmen are sure 
to be seen seated. Beyond this row of buttresses, and 
further from the bridge, and also further from the 
water which here suddenly bends, are the pretty oriel 
windows of Mr. Harding’s house, and his well-mown 
lawn. The entrance to the hospital is from the Lon- 
don road, and is made through a ponderous gateway 
under a heavy stone arch, unnecessary, one would sup- 
pose, at any time, for the protection of twelve old 
men, but greatly conducive to the good appearance 
of Hiram’s charity. On passing through this portal, 
never closed to any one from six a.m. till ten p.m., 
and never open afterwards, except on application to 
a huge, intricately hung mediaeval bell, the handle of 
which no uninitiated intruder can possibly find, the six 
doors of the old men’s abodes are seen, and beyond 
them is a slight iron screen, through which the more 
happy portion of the Barchester elite pass into the 
Elysium of Mr. Harding’s dwelling. 

Mr. Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty 
years, but bearing few of the signs of age ; his hair is 
rather grizzled than grey; his eye is very mild, but 
clear and bright, though the double glasses whici. iic 
held swinging from his hand, unless when fixed upon 


8 


THE WARDEN. 


his nose, show that time has told upon his sight ; his 
hands are delicately white, and both hands and feet 
are small ; he always wears a black frock-coat, black 
knee-breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scan- 
dalises some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a 
black neck-handkerchief. 

Mr. Harding’s warmest admirers cannot say that he 
was ever an industrious man ; the circumstances of his 
life have not called on him to be so ; and yet he can 
hardly be called an idler. Since his appointment to 
his precentorship, he has published, with all possible 
additions of vellum, typography, and gilding, a collec- 
tion of our ancient church music, with some correct 
dissertations on Purcell, Crotch, and Nares. He has 
greatly improved the choir of Barchester, which, under 
his dominion, now rivals that of any cathedral in Eng- 
land. He has taken something more than his fair 
share in the cathedral services, and has played the 
violoncello daily to such audiences as he could collect, 
or, faiite de mieux, to no audience at all. 

We must mention one other peculiarity of Mr. 
Harding. As we have before stated he has an income 
of eight hundred a year, and has no family but his one 
daughter ; and yet he is never quite at ease in money 
matters. The vellum and gilding of “ Harding’s 
Church Music ” cost more than any one knows, except 
the author, the publisher, and the Rev. Theophilus 
Grantly, who allows none of his father-in-law’s extrava- 
gances to escape him. Then he is generous to his 
daughter, for whose service he keeps a small carriage 
and pair of ponies. He is, indeed, generous to all, 
but especially to the twelve old men who are in a 
peculiar manner under his care. No doubt with such 


Hiram’s hospital. 


9 


an income Mr. Harding should be above the world, 
as the saying is ; but, at any rate, he is not above 
Archdeacon Theophilus Grantly, for he is always more 
or less in debt to his son-in-law, who has, to a certain 
extent, assumed the arrangement of the precentor’s 
pecuniary affairs. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. 

Mr. Harding has been now precentor of Barchester 
for ten years ; and, alas, the murmurs respecting the 
proceeds of Hiram’s estate are again becoming audible. 
It is not that any one begrudges to Mr. Harding the 
income which he enjoys, and the comfortable place 
which so well becomes him ; but such matters have 
begun to be talked of in various parts of England. 
Eager, pushing politicians have asserted in the House 
of Commons, with very telling indignation, that the 
grasping priests of the Church of England are gorged 
with the wealth which the charity of former times has 
left for the solace of the aged, or the education of the 
young. The well-known case of the Hospital of St. 
Cross has even come before the law courts of the 
country, and the struggles of Mr. Whiston, at Roches- 
ter, have met with sympathy and support. Men are 
beginning to say that these things must be looked into. 

Mr. Harding, whose conscience in the matter is clear, 
and who has never felt that he had received a pound 
from Hiram’s will to which he was not entitled, has 
naturally taken the part of the church in talking over 
these matters with his friend, the bishop, and his son- 
in-law, the archdeacon. The archdeacon, indeed. Dr. 
Grantly, has been somewhat loud in the matter. He 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. II 

is a personal friend of the dignitaries of the Roches- 
ter Chapter, and has written letters in the public press 
on the subject of that turbulent Dr. Whiston, which, 
his admirers think, must well-nigh set the question at 
rest. It is also known at Oxford that he is the author 
of the pamphlet signed ‘‘ Sacerdos,” on the subject of 
the Earl of Guildford and St. Cross, in which it is so 
clearly argued that the manners of the present times 
do not admit of a literal adhesion to the very words of 
the founder’s will, but that the interests of the church 
for which the founder was so deeply concerned are 
best consulted in enabling its bishops to reward those 
shining lights whose services have been most signally 
serviceable to Christianity. In answer to this, it is as- 
serted that Henry de Blois, founder of St. Cross, was 
not greatly interested in the welfare of the reformed 
church, and that the masters of St. Cross, for many 
years past, cannot be called shining lights in the serv^ 
ice of Christianity. It is, however, stoutly maintained, 
and no doubt felt, by all the archdeacon’s friends that 
his logic is conclusive, and has not, in fact, been an- 
swered. 

With such a tower of strength to back both his ar- 
guments and his conscience, it may be imagined that 
Mr. Harding has never felt any compunction as to re- 
ceiving his quarterly sum of two hundred pounds. 
Indeed, the subject has never presented itself to his 
mind in that shape. He has talked not unfrequently, 
and heard very much about the wills of old founders 
and the incomes arising from their estates, during the 
last year or two ; he did even, at one moment, feel a 
doubt (since expelled by his son-in-law’s logic) as to 
whether Lord Guildford was clearly entitled to receive 


12 


THE WARDEN. 


SO enormous an income as he does from the revenues 
of St. Cross ; but that he himself was overpaid with 
his modest eight hundred pounds, — he who, out of 
that, voluntarily gave up sixty-two pounds eleven shil- 
lings and fourpence a year to his twelve old neighbours, 
— he who, for the money, does his precentor’s work as 
no precentor has done it before since Barchester Ca- 
thedral was built, — such an idea has never sullied his 
quiet, or disturbed his conscience. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Harding is becoming uneasy at 
the rumour which he ]j:nows to prevail in Barchester on 
the subject. He is aware that, at any rate, two of his 
old men have been heard to say, that if every one had 
his own, they might each have their hundred pounds 
a year and live like gentlemen, instead of a beggarly 
one shilling and sixpence a day ; and that they had 
slender cause to be thankful for a miserable dole of 
twopence, when Mr. Harding and Mr. Chadwick, be- 
tween them, ran away with thousands of pounds which 
good old John Hiram never intended for the like of 
them. It is the ingratitude of this which stings Mr. 
Harding. One of this discontented pair, Abel Handy, 
was put into the hospital by himself ; he had been a 
stonemason in Barchester, and had broken his thigh 
by a fall from a scaffolding, while employed about the 
cathedral ; and Mr. Harding had given him the first 
vacancy in the hospital after the occurrence, although 
Dr. Grantly had been very anxious to put into it an 
insufferable clerk of his at Plumstead Episcopi, who 
had lost all his teeth, and whom the archdeacon hardly 
knew how to get rid of by other means. Dr. Grantly 
has not forgotten to remind Mr. Harding how well 
satisfied with his one and sixpence a day old Joe 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. 


13 


Mutters would have been, and how injudicious it was 
on the part of Mr. Harding to allow a radical from the 
town to get into the concern. Probably Dr. Grantly 
forgot, at the moment, that the charity was intended 
for broken-down journeymen of Barchester. 

There is living at Barchester a young man, a sur- 
geon, named John Bold, and both Mr. Harding and 
Dr. Grantly are well aware that to him is owing the 
pestilent, rebellious feeling which has shown itself in the 
hospital ; yes, and the renewal, too, of that disagreea- 
ble talk about Hiram’s estates which is now again prev- 
alent in Barchester. Nevertheless, Mr. Harding and 
Mr. Bold are acquainted with each other. We may 
say, are friends, considering the great disparity in their 
years. Dr, Grantly, however, has a holy horror of the 
impious demagogue, as on one occasion he called 
Bold, when speaking of him to the precentor ; and be- 
ing a more prudent, far-seeing man than Mr. Harding, 
and possessed of a stronger head, he already perceives 
that this John Bold will work great trouble in Bar- 
chester. He considers that he is to be regarded as an 
enemy, and thinks that he should not be admitted into 
the camp on anything like friendly terms. As John 
Bold will occupy much of our attention, we must en- 
deavour to explain who he is, and why he takes the 
part of John Hiram’s bedesmen. 

John Bold is a young surgeon, who passed many of 
his boyish years at Barchester. His father was a 
physician in the city of London, where he made a^ 
moderate fortune, which he invested in houses in that 
city. The Dragon of Wantly inn and posting-house 
belonged to him, also four shops in the High Street, 
and a moiety of the new row of genteel villas (so called 


14 


THE WARDEN. 


in the advertisements) built outside the town just be- 
yond Hiram’s Hospital. To one of these Dr. Bold 
retired to spend the evening of his life, and to die ; and 
here his son John spent his holidays, and afterwards 
his Christmas vacation, when he went from school to 
study surgery in the London hospitals. Just as John 
Bold was entitled to write himself surgeon and apothe- 
cary, old Dr. Bold died, leaving his Barchester prop- 
erty to his son, and a certain sum in the three per 
cents, to his daughter Mary, who is some four or five 
years older than her brother. 

John Bold determined to settle himself at Barchester, 
and look after his own property, as well as the bones 
and bodies of such of his neighbours as would call upon 
him for assistance in their troubles. He therefore put 
up a large brass plate, with John Bold, Surgeon,” on 
it, to the great disgust of the nine practitioners who 
were already trying to get a living out of the bishop, 
dean, and canons ; and began housekeeping with the 
aid of his sister. At this time he was not more than 
twenty-four years old ; and though he has now been 
three years in Barchester, we have not heard that he 
has done much harm to the nine worthy practitioners. 
Indeed, their dread of him has died away ; for in three 
years he has not taken three fees. 

Nevertheless, John Bold is a clever man, and would, 
with practice, be a clever surgeon ; but he has got 
quite into another line of life. Having enough to live 
on, he has not been forced to work for bread ; he has 
declined to subject himself to what he calls the drudgery 
of the profession, by which, I believe, he means the 
general work of a practising surgeon ; and has found 
other employment. He frequently binds up the bruises 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. 


15 


and sets the limbs of such of the poorer classes as pro- 
fess his way of thinking, — but this he does for love. 
Now I will not say that the archdeacon is strictly cor- 
rect in stigmatising John Bold as a demagogue, for I 
hardly know how extreme must be a man’s opinions 
before he can be justly so called ; but Bold is a strong 
reformer. His passion is the reform of all abuses; 
state abuses, church abuses, corporation abuses (he has 
got himself elected a town councillor of Barchester, 
and has so worried three consecutive mayors that it 
became somewhat difficult to find a fourth), abuses in 
medical practice, and general abuses in the world at 
large. Bold is thoroughly sincere in his patriotic en- 
deavours to mend mankind, and there is something to 
be admired in the energy with which he devotes him- 
self to remedying evil and stopping injustice ; but I 
fear that he is too much imbued with the idea that he 
has a special mission for reforming. It would be well 
if one so young had a little more diffidence himself, and 
more trust in the honest purposes of others, — if he 
could be brought to believe that old customs need not 
necessarily be evil, and that changes may possibly be 
dangerous ; but no ; Bold has all the ardour and all 
the self-assurance of a Danton, and hurls his anathe- 
mas against time-honoured practices with the violence 
of a French Jacobin. 

No wonder that Dr. Grantly should regard Bold as 
a firebrand, falling, as he has done, almost in the centre 
of the quiet, ancient close of Barchester Cathedral. 
Dr. Grantly would have him avoided as the plague ; 
but the old Doctor and Mr. Harding were fast friends. 
Young Johnny Bold used to play as a boy on Mr. 
Harding’s lawn ; he has many a time won the pre- 


THE WARDEN. 


1 6 

center’s heart by listening with rapt attention to his 
sacred strains ; and since those days, to tell the truth 
at' once, he has nearly won another heart within the 
same walls. 

Eleanor Harding has not plighted her troth to John 
Bold, nor has she, perhaps, owned to herself how dear 
to her the young reformer is ; but she cannot endure 
that any one should speak harshly of him. She does 
not dare to defend him when her brother-in-law is so 
loud against .him ; for she, like her father, is somewhat 
afraid of Dr. Grantly ; but she is beginning greatly to 
dislike the archdeacon. She persuades her father that 
it would be both unjust and injudicious to banish his 
young friend because of his politics ; she cares little to 
go to houses where she will not meet him, and, in fact, 
she is in love. 

Nor is there any good reason why Eleanor Harding 
should not love John Bold. He has all those qualities 
which are likely to touch a girl’s heart. He is brave, 
eager, and amusing; well made and good looking; 
young and enterprising ; his character is in all respects 
good ; he has sufficient income to support a wife ; he 
is her father’s friend ; and, above all, he is in love with 
her. Then why should not Eleanor Harding be at- 
tached to John Bold? 

Dr. Grantly, who has as many eyes as Argus, and 
has long seen how the wind blows in that direction, 
thinks there are various strong reasons why this should 
not be so. He has not thought it wise as yet to speak 
to his father-in-law on the subject, for he knows how 
foolishly indulgent is Mr. Harding in everything that 
concerns his daughter ; but he has discussed the mat- 
ter with his all-trusted helpmate within that sacred re- 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. I 7 

cess formed by the clerical bed-curtains of Plumstead 
Episcopi. 

How much sweet solace, how much valued counsel 
has our archdeacon received within that sainted en- 
closure ! ’T is there alone that he unbends and comes 
down from his high church pedestal to the level of a 
mortal man. In the world Dr. Grantly never lays 
aside that demeanour which so well becomes him. He 
has all the dignity of an ancient saint with the sleek- 
ness of a modern bishop ; he is always the same ; he 
is always the archdeacon ; unlike Homer, he never 
nods. Even with his father-in-law, even with the 
bishop, and dean, he maintains that sonorous tone and 
lofty deportment which strikes awe into the young 
hearts of Barchester, and absolutely cows the whole 
parish of Plumstead Episcopi. ’T is only when he has 
exchanged that ever-new shovel hat for a tasselled 
nightcap, and those shining black habiliments for his 
accustomed robe de nuit^ that Dr. Grantly talks, and 
looks, and thinks like an ordinary man. 

Many of us have often thought how severe a trial 
of faith must this be to the wives of our great church 
dignitaries. To us these men are personifications of 
St. Paul ; their very gait is a speaking sermon ; their 
clean and sombre apparel exacts from us faith and 
submission, and the cardinal virtues seein to hover 
round their sacred hats. A dean or archbishop in the 
garb of his order is sure of our reverence, and a well 
got-up bishop fills our very souls with awe. But how 
can this feeling be perpetuated in the bosoms of those 
who see the bishops without their aprons, and the arch- 
deacons even in a lower state of dishabille? 

Do we not all know some reverend, all but sacred, 


2 


THE WARDEN. 


1 8 

personage before whom our tongue ceases to be loud, 
and our step to be elastic? But were we once to 
see him stretch himself beneath the bedclothes, yawn 
widely, and bury his face upon his pillow, we could 
chatter before him as glibly as before a doctor or a 
lawyer. From some such cause, doubtless, it arose 
that om: archdeacon listened to the counsels of his wife, 
though he considered himself entitled to give counsel 
to every other being whom he met. 

My dear,” he said, as he adjusted the copious folds 
of his nightcap, ''there was that John Bold at your 
father’s again to-day. I must say your father is very 
imprudent.” 

" He is imprudent ; — he always was,” replied Mrs. 
Grantly, speaking from under the comfortable bed- 
clothes. " There ’s nothing new in that.” 

"No, my dear, there ’s nothing new ; — I know that ; 
but, at the present juncture of affairs, such imprudence 
is — is — I ’ll tell you what, my dear, if he does not take 
care what he ’s about, John Bold will be off with 
Eleanor.” 

" I think he will, whether papa takes care or no. 
And why not? ” 

" Why not! ” almost screamed the archdeacon, giving 
so rough a pull at his nightcap as almost to bring it 
over his nose; "why not! — that pestilent, interfering 
upstart, John Bold ; — the most vulgar young person I 
ever met! Do you know that he is meddling with 

your father’s affairs in a most uncalled for — most ” 

And being at a loss for an epithet sufficiently in- 
jurious, he finished his expressions of horror by mut- 
tering, "Good heavens!” in a manner that had been 
found very efficacious in clerical meetings of the dio- 


THE BAJICHESTER REFORMER. 


19 


cese. He must for the moment have forgotten where 
he was. 

“ As to his vulgarity, archdeacon ” (Mrs. Grantly 
had never assumed a more familiar term than this in 
addressing her husband), I don’t agree with you. 
Not that I like Mr. Bold ; — he is a great deal too con- 
ceited for me ; but then Eleanor does, and it would 
be the best thing in the world for papa if they were 
to marry. Bold would never trouble himself about 
Hiram’s Hospital if he were papa’s son-in-law.” And 
the lady turned herself round under the bedclothes in 
a manner to which the doctor was well accustomed, 
and which told him, as plainly as words, that as far as 
she was concerned the subject was over for that night. 

“ Good heavens! ” murmured the doctor again. He 
was evidently much put beside himself. 

Dr. Grantly was by no means a bad man ; he was 
exactly the man which such an education as his was 
most likely to form ; his intellect being sufficient for 
such a place in the world, but not sufficient to put him 
in advance of it. He performed with a rigid constancy 
such of the duties of a parish clergyman as were, to 
his thinking, above the sphere of his curate, but it is 
as an archdeacon that he shone. 

We believe, as a general rule, that either a bishop 
or his archdeacons have sinecures. Where a bishop 
works, archdeacons have but little to do, and vice 
vei'sd. In the diocese of Barchester the archdeacon 
of Barchester did the work. In that capacity he was 
diligent, authoritative, and, as his friends particularly 
boasted, judicious. His great fault was an overbearing 
assurance of the virtues and claims of his order, and 
his great foible an equally strong confidence in the 


20 


THE WARDEN. 


dignity of his own manner and the eloquence of his 
own words. He was a moral man, believing the pre- 
cepts which he taught, and believing also that he acted 
up to them ; though we cannot say that he would give 
his coat to the man who took his cloak, or that he was 
prepared to forgive his brother even seven times. He 
was severe enough in exacting his dues, considering 
that any laxity in this respect would endanger the se- 
curity of the church ; and, could he have had his way, 
he would have consigned to darkness and perdition, 
not only every individual reformer, but every com- 
mittee and every commission that would even dare to 
ask a question respecting the appropriation of church 
5fevenues. 

“ They are church revenues : the laity admit it. 
Surely the church is able to administer her own reve- 
nues.” 'T was thus he was accustomed to argue, when 
the sacrilegious doings of Lord John Russell and others 
were discussed either at Barchester or at Oxford. 

It was no wonder that Dr. Grantly did not like J ohn 
Bold, and that his wife’s suggestion that he should 
become closely connected with such a man dismayed 
him. To give him his dues, we must admit that the 
archdeacon never wanted courage ; he was quite will- 
ing to meet his enemy on any field and with any 
weapon. He had that belief in his own arguments 
that he felt sure of success, could he only be sure of 
a fair fight on the part of his adversary. He had 
no idea that John Bold could really prove that the in- 
come of the hospital was malappropriated. Why, then, 
should peace be sought for on such bad terms? What ! 
bribe an unbelieving enemy of the church with the sis- 
ter-in-law of one dignitary and the daughter of another. 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. 2 1 

— with a young lady whose connections with the dio- 
cese and chapter of Barchester were so close as to give 
her an undeniable claim to a husband endowed with 
some of its sacred wealth! When Dr. Grantly talks 
of unbelieving enemies, he does not mean to imply 
want of belief in the doctrines of the church, but an 
equally dangerous scepticism as to its purity in money 
matters. 

Mrs. Grantly is not usually deaf to the claims of the 
high order to which she belongs. She and her husband 
rarely disagree as to the tone with which the church 
should be defended. How singular, then, that in such 
a case as this she should be willing to succumb I The 
archdeacon again murmurs Good heavens! ” as he 
lays himself beside her, but he does so in a voice audi- 
ble only to himself, and he repeats it till sleep relieves 
him from deep thought. 

Mr. Harding himself has seen no reason why his 
daughter should not love John Bold. He has not been 
unobservant of her feelings, and perhaps his deepest 
regret at the part which he fears Bold is about to take 
regarding the hospital arises from a dread that he may 
be separated from his daughter, or that she may be 
separated from the man she loves. He has never 
spoken to Eleanor about her lover ; he is the last man 
in the world to allude to such a subject unconsulted, 
even with his own daughter ; and had he considered 
that he had ground to disapprove of Bold, he would 
have removed her or forbidden him his house ; but he 
saw no such ground. He would probably have pre- 
ferred a second clerical son-in-law, for Mr. Harding, 
also, is attached to his order ; and, failing in that, he 
would at any rate have wished that so near a com 


THE WARDEN. 


2 2 

nection should have thought alike with him on church 
matters. He would not, however, reject the man his 
daughter loved because he differed on such subjects 
with himself. 

Hitherto Bold had taken no steps in the matter in 
any way annoying to Mr. Harding personally. Some 
months since, after a severe battle, which cost him not 
a little money, he gained a victory over a certain old 
turnpike woman in the neighbourhood, of whose charges 
another old woman had complained to him. He got 
the act of Parliament relating to the trust, found that 
his protegee had been wrongly taxed, rode through the 
gate himself, paying the toll, then brought an action 
against the gate-keeper, and proved that all people 
coming up a certain by-lane, and going down a certain 
other by-lane, were toll-free. The fame of his success 
spread widely abroad, and he began to be looked on as 
the upholder of the rights of the poor of Barchester. 
Not long after this success, he heard from different 
quarters that Hiram’s bedesmen were treated as pau- 
pers, whereas the property to which they were, in ef- 
fect, heirs, was very large ; and he was instigated by 
the lawyer whom he had employed in the case of the 
turnpike to call upon Mr. Chadwick for a statement as 
to the funds of the estate. 

Bold had often expressed his indignation at the mal- 
appropriation of church funds in general, in the hear- 
ing of his friend the precentor ; but the conversation 
had never referred to anything at Barchester; and 
when Finney, the attorney, induced him to interfere 
with the affairs of the hospital, it was against Mr. 
Chadwick that his efforts were to be directed. Bold 
soon found that if he interfered with Mr. Chadwick 


THE BARCHESTER REFORMER. 


23 


as steward, he must also interfere with Mr. Harding 
as warden ; and though he regretted the situation in 
which this would place him, he was not the man to 
flinch from his undertaking from personal motives. 

As soon as he had determined to take the matter in 
hand, he set about his work with his usual energy. 
He got a copy of John Hiram’s will, of the wording 
of which he made himself perfectly master. He as- 
certained the extent of the property, and as nearly as 
he could the value of it ; and made out a schedule cf 
what he was informed was the present distribution of 
its income. Armed with these particulars, he called 
on Mr. Chadwick, having given that gentleman notice 
of his visit ; and asked him for a statement of the 
income and expenditure of the hospital for the last 
twenty-five years. 

This was of course refused, Mr. Chadwick alleging 
that he had no authority for making public the con- 
cerns of a property in managing which he was only a 
paid servant. 

And who is competent to give you that authority, 
Mr. Chadwick?” asked Bold. 

‘‘ Only those who employ me, Mr. Bold,” said the 
steward. 

“And who are those, Mr. Chadwick?” demanded 
Bold. 

Mr. Chadwick begged to say that if these inquiries 
were made merely out of curiosity, he must decline 
answering them : if Mr. Bold had any ulterior proceed- 
ing in view, perhaps it would be desirable that any 
necessary information should be sought for in a pro- 
fessional way by a professional man. Mr. Chadwick’s 
^Lttojneys were Messrs. Cox and Cummins, of Lincoln’s 


24 


THE WARDEN. 


Inn. Mr. Bold took down the address of Cox and 
Cummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the 
time of the year, and wished Mr. Chadwick good 
morning. Mr. Chadwick said it was cold for June, 
and bowed him out. 

He at once went to his lawyer, Finney. Now, 
Bold was not very fond of his attorney, but, as he 
said, he merely wanted a man who knew the forms of 
law, and who would do what he was told for his 
money. He had no idea of putting himself in the 
hands of a lawyer. He wanted law from a lawyer as 
he did a coat from a tailor, because he could not make 
it so well himself ; and he thought Finney the fittest 
man in Barchester for his purpose. In one respect, at 
any rate, he was right. Finney was humility itself. 

Finney advised an instant letter to Cox and Cum- 
mins, mindful of his six-and-eightpence. “ Slap at them 
at once, Mr. Bold. Demand categorically and explic- 
itly a full statement of the affairs of the hospital.” 

Suppose I were to see Mr. Harding first,” suggested 
Bold. 

“Yes, yes, by all means,” said the acquiescing Fin- 
ney ; “ though, perhaps, as Mr. Harding is no man of 
business, it may lead — lead to some little difficulties ; 
but perhaps you ’re right. Mr. Bold, I don’t think 
seeing Mr. Harding can do any harm.” Finney saw 
from the expression of his client’s face that he intended 
to have his own way. 


4 


CHAPTER III. 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 

Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day 
was now far advanced, but he knew that Mr. Harding 
dined in the summer at four, that Eleanor was accus- 
tomed to drive in the evening, and that he might there- 
fore probably find Mr. Harding alone. It was between 
seven and eight when he reached the slight iron gate 
leading into the precentor’s garden, and though, as 
Mr. Chadwick observed, the day had been cold for. 
June, the evening was mild, and soft, and sweet. The 
little gate was open. As he raised the latch he heard 
the notes of Mr. Harding’s violoncello from the far end 
of the garden, and, advancing before the house and 
across the lawn, he found him playing and not 
without an audience. The musician: was seated in a 
garden-chair just within the summer-house, so as to al- 
low the violoncello which he held between his knees to 
rest upon the dry stone flooring ; before him stood a 
rough music desk, on which was open a page of that 
dear, sacred book, that much-laboured and much-loved 
volume of church music, which had cost so many 
guineas; and around sat, and lay, and stood, and 
leaned, ten of the twelve old men who dwelt with him 
beneath old John Hiram’s roof. The two reformers 
)vere not there. I will not say that in their hearts they 


26 


THE WARDEN. 


were conscious of any wrong done or to be done to 
their mild warden, but latterly they had kept aloof from 
him, and his music was no longer to their taste. 

It was amusing to see the positions, and eager, lis- 
tening faces of these well-to-do old men. I will not 
say that they all appreciated the music which they 
heard, but they were intent on appearing to do so. 
Pleased at being where they were, they were deter- 
mined, as far as in them lay, to give pleasure in return ; 
and they were not unsuccessful. It gladdened the 
precentor’s heart to think that the old bedesmen whom 
he loved so well admired the strains which were to 
him so full of almost ecstatic joy; and he used to 
boast that such was the air of the hospital, as to make 
it a precinct specially fit for the worship of St. Cecilia. 

Immediately before him, on the extreme comer of 
the bench which ran round the summer-house, sat one 
old man, with his handkerchief smoothly laid upon his 
knees, who did enjoy the moment, or acted enjoyment 
well. He was one on whose large frame many years, 
for he was over eighty, had made small havoc. He 
was still an upright, burly, handsome figure, with an 
open, ponderous brow, round which clung a few, 
though very few, thin grey locks. The coarse black 
gown of the hospital, the breeches and buckled shoes 
became him well ; and as he sat with his hands folded 
on his staff, and his chin resting on his hands, he was 
such a listener as most musicians would be glad to 
welcome. 

This man was certainly the pride of the hospital. 
It had always been the custom that one should be 
selected as being to some extent in authority over 
tbe others ; and though Mr. Bunce, for such was his 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


27 


name, and so he was always designated by his inferior 
brethren, had no greater emoluments than they, he 
had assumed, and well knew how to maintain, the 
dignity of his elevation. The precentor delighted to 
call him his sub-warden, and was not ashamed, occa- 
sionally, when no other guest was there, to bid him 
sit down by the same parlor fire, and drink the full 
glass of port which was placed near him. Bunce never 
went without the second glass, but no entreaty ever 
made him take a third. 

“■Well, well, Mr. Harding; you ’re too good, much 
too good,” he ’d always say, as the second glass wa^ 
filled ; but when that was drunk, and the half hour 
over, Bunce stood erect, and with a benediction which 
his patron valued, retired to his own abode. He knew 
the world too well to risk the comfort of such halcyon 
moments by prolonging them till they were disagree- 
able. 

Mr. Bunce, as may be imagined, was most strongly 
opposed to innovation. Not even Dr. Grantly had a 
more holy horror of those who would interfere in the 
affairs of the hospital. He was every inch a church- 
man ; and though he was not very Tond of Dr. Grantly 
personally, that arose from there not being room in the 
hospital for two people so much alike as the doctor 
and himself, rather than from any dissimilarity in feel- 
ing. Mr. Bunce was inclined to think that the warden 
and himself could manage the hospital without further 
assistance ; and that, though the bishop was the con- 
stitutional visitor, and as such entitled to special rever- 
ence from all connected with John Hiram’s will, John 
Hiram never intended that his affairs should be inter- 
fered with by an archdeacon. 


28 


THE WARDEN. 


At the present moment, however, these cares were 
off his mind, and he was looking at his warden as 
though he thought the music heavenly, and the musi- 
cian hardly less so. 

As Bold walked silently over the lawn, Mr. Harding 
did not at first perceive him, and continued to draw 
his bow slowly across the plaintive wires ; but he soon 
found from his audience that some stranger was there, 
and, looking up, began to welcome his young friend 
with frank hospitality. 

“ Pray, Mr. Harding ; pray don’t let me dis- 

turb you,” said Bold ; “ you know how fond I am of 
sacred music.” 

“ Oh! it ’s nothing,” said the precentor, shutting up 
the book and then opening it again as he saw the de- 
lightfully imploring look of his old friend Bunce. Oh, 
Bunce, Bunce, Bunce, I fear that after all thou art 
but a flatterer. “ Well, I ’ll just finish it then ; it ’s a 
favourite little bit of Bishop’s; and then, Mr. Bold, 
we ’ll have a stroll and a chat till Eleanor comes in 
and gives us tea.” And so Bold sat down on the soft 
turf to listen, or rather to think how, after such sweet 
harmony, he might best introduce a theme of so much 
discord to disturb the peace of him who was so ready 
to welcome him kindly. 

Bold thought that the performance was soon over, 
for he felt that he had a somewhat difficult task, and 
he almost regretted the final leave-taking of the last of 
the old men, slow as they were in going through their 
adieus. 

Bold’s heart was in his mouth as the precentor made 
some ordinary but kind remark as to the friendliness 
of the visit. 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


29 


One evening call,” said he, “ is worth ten in the 
morning. It ’s all formality in the morning. Real 
social talk never begins till after dinner. That ’s why 
I dine early, so as to get as much as I can of it.” 

“ Quite true, Mr. Harding,” said the other; ‘'but I 
fear I ’ve reversed the order of things, and I owe you 
much apology for troubling you on business at such an 
hour ; but it is on business that I have called just now.” 

Mr. Harding looked blank and annoyed. There was 
something in the tone of the young man’s voice which 
told him that the interview was intended to be disagree- 
able, and he shrank back at finding his kindly greeting 
so repulsed. 

“ I wish to speak to you about the hospital,” con- 
tinued Bold. 

“ Well, well, anything I can tell you I shall be most 
happy ” 

“ It ’s about the accounts.” 

“ Then, my dear fellow, I can tell you nothing, for 
I ’m as ignorant as a child. All I know is, that they 
pay me 800/. a year. Go to Chadwick, he knows all 
about the accounts ; and now tell me, will poor Mary 
Jones ever get the use of her limb again? ” 

“ Well, I think she will, if she ’s careful. But, Mr. 
Harding, I hope you won’t object to discuss with me 
what I have to say about the hospital.” 

Mr. Harding gave a deep, long-drawn sigh. He 
did object, very strongly object, to discuss any such 
subject with John Bold; but he had not the business 
tact of Mr. Chadwick, and did not know how to re- 
lieve himself from the coming evil. He sighed sadly, 
but made no answer. 

“ I have the greatest regard for you, Mr. Harding,” 


30 


THE WARDEN. 


continued Bold ; “ the truest respect, the most sin- 


“ Thank ye, thank ye, Mr. Bold,” interjaculated the 
precentor somewhat impatiently ; I ’m much obliged, 
but never mind that ; I ’m as likely to be in the wrong 
as another man, — quite as likely.” 

“ But, Mr. Harding, I must express what I feel, lest 
you should think there is personal enmity in what I ’m 
going to do.” 

“ Personal enmity ! Going to do ! Why you ’re not 
going to cut my throat, nor put me into the Ecclesias- 
tical Court!” 

Bold tried to laugh, but he could n’t. He was quite 
in earnest, and determined in his course, and could n’t 
make a joke of it. He walked on awhile in silence 
before he recommenced his attack, during which Mr. 
Harding, who had still the bow in his hand, played 
rapidly on an imaginary violoncello. I fear there is 
reason to think that John Hiram’s will is not carried 
out to the letter, Mr. Harding,” said the young man 
at last ; “ and I have been asked to see into it.” 

“Very well; I ’ve no objection on earth; and now 
we need not say another word about it.” 

“ Only one word more, Mr. Harding. Chadwick 
has referred me to Cox and Cummins, and I think it 
my duty to apply to them for some statement about 
the hospital. In what I do I may appear to be inter- 
fering with you, and I hope you will forgive me for 
doing so.” 

“ Mr. Bold,” said the other, stopping, and speaking 
with some solemnity, “ if you act justly, say nothing in 
this matter but the truth, and use no unfair weapons in 
carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothing to 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


31 


forgive. I presume you think I am not entitled to the 
income I receive from the hospital, and that others are 
entitled to it. Whatever some may do, I shall never 
attribute to you base motives because you hold an 
opinion opposed to my own, and adverse to my inter- 
ests. Pray do what you consider to be your duty. I 
can give you no assistance, neither will I offer you any 
obstacle. Let me, however, suggest to you, that you 
can in no wise forward your views nor I mine by any 
discussion between us. Here comes Eleanor and the 
ponies, and we ’ll go in to tea.” 

Bold, however, felt that he could not sit down at 
ease with Mr. Harding and his daughter after what 
had passed, and therefore excused himself with much 
awkward apology; and merely raising his hat and 
bowing as he passed Eleanor and the pony chair, left 
her in disappointed amazement at his departure. 

Mr. Harding’s demeanour certainly impressed Bold 
with a full conviction that he as warden felt that he 
stood on strong grounds, and almost made him think 
that he was about to interfere without due warrant in 
the private affairs of a just and honourable man. But 
Mr. Harding himself was anything .but satisfied with 
his own view of the case. 

In the first place, he wished for Eleanor’s sake to 
think well of Bold and to like him, and yet he could 
not but feel disgusted at the arrogance of his conduct. 
What right had he to say that John Hiram’s will was 
not fairly carried out? But then the question would 
arise within his heart, — Was that will fairly acted on? 
Did John Hiram mean that the warden of his hospital 
should receive considerably more out of the legacy . 
than all the twelve old men together for whose behoof 


32 


THE WARDEN. 


the hospital was built? Could it be possible that John 
Bold was right, and that the reverend warden of .the 
hospital had been for the last ten years and more the 
unjust recipient of an income legally and equitably be- 
longing to others? What if it should be proved before 
the light of day that he, whose life had been so happy, 
so quiet, so respected, had absorbed 8000/. to which 
he had no title, and which he could never repay? I 
do not say that he feared that such was really the case ; 
but the first shade of doubt now fell across his mind, 
and from this evening, for many a long, long day, our 
good, kind, loving warden was neither happy nor at 
ease. 

Thoughts of this kind, these first moments of much 
misery, oppressed Mr. Harding as he sat sipping his 
tea, absent and ill at ease. Poor Eleanor felt that all 
was not right, but her ideas as to the cause of the 
evening’s discomfort did not go beyond her lover, and 
his sudden and uncivil departure. She thought there 
must have been some quarrel between Bold and her 
father, and she was half angry with both, though she 
did not attempt to explain to herself why she was so. 

Mr. Harding thought long and deeply over these 
things, both before he went to bed, and after it, as he 
lay awake, questioning within himself the validity of 
his claim to the income which he enjoyed. It seemed 
clear at any rate that, however unfortunate he might 
be at having been placed in such a position, no one 
could say that he ought either to have refused the 
appointment first, or to have rejected the income af- 
terwards. All the world, — meaning the ecclesiastical 
world as confined to the English church, — knew that 
the wardenship of the Barchester Hospital was a snug 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


33 


sinecure, but no one had ever been blamed for accept- 
ing it. To how much blame, however, would he have 
been open had he rejected it! How mad would he 
have been thought had he declared, when the situation 
was vacant and offered to him, that he had scruples as 
to receiving 800/. a year from John Hiram’s property 
and that he had rather some stranger should possess it I 
How would Dr. Grantly have shaken his wise head, 
and have consulted with his friends in the close as to 
some decent retreat for the coming insanity of the poor 
minor canon! If he was right in accepting the place, 
it was clear to him also that he would be wrong in 
rejecting any part of the income attached to it. The 
patronage was a valuable appanage of the bishopric ; 
and surely it would not be his duty to lessen the value 
of that preferment which had been bestowed on him- 
self! Surely he was bound to stand by his order! 

But somehow these arguments, though they seemed 
logical, were not satisfactory. Was John Hiram’s will 
fairly carried out? that was the true question : and if 
not, was it not his especial duty to see that this was 
done, — his especial duty, whatever injury it might do 
to his order, — however ill such duty might be received 
by his patron and his friends? At the idea of his 
friends, his mind turned unhappily to his son-in-law. 
He knew well how strongly he would be supported by 
Dr. Grantly, if he could bring himself to put his case 
into the archdeacon’s hands, and to allow him to fight 
the battle ; but he knew also that he would find no 
sympathy there for his doubts, no friendly feeling, no 
inward comfort. Dr. Grantly would be ready enough 
to take up his cudgel against all comers on behalf of 
the church militant, but he would do so on the dis' 


34 


THE WARDEN. 


tasteful ground of the church’s infallibility. Such a 
contest would give no comfort to Mr. Harding’s doubts. 
He was not so anxious to prove himself right as to be 
so. 

I have said before that Dr. Grantly was the work- 
fog man of the diocese, and that his father, the bishop, 
was somewhat inclined to an idle life. So it was ; but 
the bishop, though he had never been an active man, 
was one whose qualities had rendered him dear to all 
who knew him. He was the very opposite to his 
son ; he was a bland and a kind old man, opposed 
by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and 
episcopal ostentation. It was perhaps well for him, in 
his situation, that his son had early in life been able 
to do that which he could not well do when he was 
younger, and which he could not have done at all now 
that he was over seventy. The bishop knew how to 
entertain the clergy of his diocese, to talk easy small 
talk with the rectors’ wives, and put curates at their 
ease; but it required the strong hand of the arch- 
deacon to deal with such as were refractory either in 
their doctrines or their lives. 

The bishop and Mr. Harding loved each other 
warmly. They had grown old together, and had to- 
gether spent many, many years in clerical pursuits and 
clerical conversation. When one of them was a bishop 
and the other only a minor canon, they were even then 
much together ; but since their children had married, 
and Mr. Harding had become warden and precentor, 
they were all in all to each other. I will not say that 
they managed the diocese between them; but they 
spent much time in discussing the man who did, and 
in forming little plans to mitigate his wrath against 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


35 


church delinquents, and soften his aspirations for church 
dominion. 

Mr. Harding determined to open his mind and con- 
fess his doubts to his old friend ; and to him he went 
on the morning after John Bold’s uncourteous visit. 

Up to this period no rumour of these cruel proceed- 
ings against the hospital had reached the bishop’s ears. 
He had doubtless heard that men existed who ques- 
tioned his right to present to a sinecure of 800/. a 
year, as he had heard from time to time of some 
special immorality or disgraceful disturbance in the 
usually decent and quiet city of Barchester; but all 
he did, and all he was called on to do, on such occa- 
sions, was to shake his head, and to beg his son, the 
great dictator, to see that no harm happened to the 
church. 

It was a long story that Mr. Harding had to tell 
before he made the bishop comprehend his own view of 
the case ; but we need not follow him through the tale. 
At first the bishop counselled but one step, recom- 
mended but one remedy, had but one medicine in his 
whole pharmacopoeia strong enough to touch so grave 
a disorder. He prescribed the archdeacon. Refer 
him to the archdeacon,” he repeated, as Mr. Harding 
spoke of Bold and his visit. The archdeacon will set 
you quite right about that,” he kindly said, when his 
friend spoke with hesitation of the justness of his cause. 
‘'No man has got up all that so well as the arch- 
deacon;” but the dose, though large, failed to quiet 
the patient. Indeed, it almost produced nausea. 

“But, bishcp,” said he, “did you ever read John 
Hiram’s will? ” 

The bishop thought probably he had, thirty^five years 


36 


THE WARDEN. 


ago, when first instituted to his see, but could not state 
positively : however, he very well knew that he had 
the absolute right to present to the wardenship, and 
that the income of the warden had been regularly 
settled. 

“ But, bishop, the question is, who has the power to 
settle it? If, as this young man says, the will provides 
that the proceeds of the property are to be divided 
into shares, who has the power to alter these provis- 
ions?” The bishop had an indistinct idea that they 
altered themselves by the lapse of years ; that a kind 
of ecclesiastical statute of limitation barred the rights of 
the twelve bedesmen to any increase of income arising 
from the increased value of property. He said some- 
thing about tradition ; more of the many learned men 
who by their practice had confirmed the present ar- 
rangement ; then went at some length into the propri- 
ety of maintaining the due difference in rank and in- 
come between a beneficed clergyman, and certain poor 
old men who were dependent on charity; and con- 
cluded his argument by another reference to the arch- 
deacon. 

The precentor sat thoughtfully gazing at the fire, 
and listening to the good-natured reasoning of his 
friend. What the bishop said had a sort of comfort in 
it, but it was not a sustaining comfort. It made Mr. 
Harding feel that many others, — indeed, all others of 
his own order, — would think him right ; but it failed 
to prove to him that he truly was so. 

“ Bishop,” said he, at last, after both had sat silent 
for a while, “ I should deceive you and myself too if 
I did not tell you that I am very unhappy about this. 
Suppose that I cannoi bring myself to agree with Dr. 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


37 


Grantly! — that I find, after inquiry, that the young 
man is right, and that I am wrong, — what then? ” 

The two old men were sitting near each other, — so 
near that the bishop was able to lay his hand upon the 
other’s knee, and he did so with a gentle pressure. 
Mr. Harding well knew what that pressure meant. 
The bishop had no further argument to adduce; he 
could not fight for the cause as his son would do ; he 
could not prove all the precentor’s doubts to be 
groundless ; but he could sympathise with his friend, 
and he did so ; and Mr. Harding felt that he had re- 
ceived that for which he came. There was another 
period of silence, after which, the bishop asked with 
a degree of irritable energy, very unusual with him, 
whether this pestilent intruder ” — meaning John Bold 
— had any friends in Barchester. 

Mr. Harding had fully made up his mind to tell the 
bishop everything; to speak of his daughter’s love, 
as well as his own troubles; to talk of John Bold in 
his double capacity of future son-in-law and present 
enemy ; and though he felt it to be sufficiently disa- 
greeable, now was his time to do it. 

“He is very intimate at my own 'house, bishop.” 
The bishop stared. He was not so far gone in ortho- 
doxy and church-militancy as his son, but still he could 
not bring himself to understand how so declared an 
enemy of the establishment could be admitted on terms 
of intimacy into the house, not only of so firm a pil- 
lar as Mr. Harding, but one so much injured as the 
warden of the hospital. 

“ Indeed, I like Mr. Bold much, personally,” con- 
tinued the disinterested victim ; “ and to tell you the 
‘ truth,’ ” — he hesitated as he brought out the dreadful 


38 


THE WARDEN. 


tidings, — “ I have sometimes thought it not improbable 
that he would be my second son-in-law.” The bishop 
did not whistle. We believe that they lose the power 
of doing so on being consecrated ; and that in these 
days one might as easily meet a corrupt judge as a 
whistling bishop ; but he looked as though he would 
have done so but for his apron. 

What a brother-in-law for the archdeacon ! what an 
alliance for Barchester close! what a connection for 
even the episcopal palace! The bishop, in his simple 
mind, felt no doubt that John Bold, had he so much 
power, would shut up all cathedrals, and probably all 
parish churches; distribute all tithes among Metho- 
dists, Baptists, and other savage tribes; utterly anni- 
hilate the sacred bench, and make shovel hats and 
lawn sleeves as illegal as cowls, sandals, and sackcloth ! 
Here was a nice man to be initiated into the com- 
fortable arcana of ecclesiastical snuggeries ; one who 
doubted the integrity of parsons, and probably disbe- 
lieved the Trinity! 

Mr. Harding saw what an effect his communication 
had made, and almost repented the openness of his 
disclosure. He, however, did what he could to mod- 
erate the grief of his friend and patron. “ I do not 
say that there is any engagement between them. Had 
there been, Eleanor would have told me. I know her 
well enough to be assured that she would have done 
so ; but I see that they are fond of each other ; and as 
a man and a father, I have had no objection to urge 
against their intimacy.” 

“ But, Mr. Harding,” said the bishop, “ how are you 
to oppose him, if he is your son-in-law? ” 

I don’t mean to oppose him ; it is he who opposes 


THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. 


39 


me ; if anything is to be done in defence, I suppose 
Chadwick will do it. I suppose ” 

“ Oh, the archdeacon will see to that. Were the 
young man twice his brother-in-law, the archdeacon 
will never be deterred from doing what he feels to be 
right.” 

Mr. Harding reminded the bishop that the arch- 
deacon and the reformer were not yet brothers, and 
very probably never would be ; exacted from him a 
promise that Eleanor’s name should not be mentioned 
in any discussion between the father bishop and son 
archdeacon respecting the hospital ; and then took his 
departure, leaving his poor old friend bewildered, 
amazed, and confounded. 


CHAPTER IV. 


hiram’s bedesmen. 

The parties most interested in the movement which 
is about to set Barchester by the ears were not the 
foremost to discuss the merit of the question, as is often 
the case ; but when the bishop, the archdeacon, the 
warden, the steward, and Messrs. Cox and Cummins 
were all busy with the matter, each in his own way, it 
is not to be supposed that Hiram’s bedesmen them- 
selves were altogether passive spectators. Finney, the 
attorney, had been among them, asking sly questions, 
and raising immoderate hopes, creating a party hostile 
to the warden, and establishing a corps in the enemy’s 
camp, as he figuratively calls it to himself. Poor old 
men! Whoever may be righted or wronged by this 
inquiry, they at any rate will assuredly be only injured. 
To them it can only be an unmixed evil. How can their 
lot be improved? All their wants are supplied ; every 
comfort is administered ; they have warm houses, good 
clothes, plentiful diet, and rest after a life of labour ; 
and, above all, that treasure so inestimable in declining 
years, a true and kind friend to listen to their sorrows, 
watch over their sickness, and administer comfort as 
regards this world and the world to come! 

John Bold sometimes thinks of this when he is talk- 
ing loudly of the rights of the bedesmen whom he has 


Hiram’s bedesmen. 


41 


taken under his protection ; but he quiets the sugges- 
tion within his breast with the high-sounding name of 
justice. “ Fiat justitia ruat coelum.” These old men 
should, by rights, have one hundred pounds a year 
instead of one shilling and sixpence a day, and the 
warden should have two hundred or three hundred 
pounds instead of eight hundred pounds. What is un- 
just must be wrong ; what is wrong should be righted ; 
and if he declined the task, who else would do it? 

“ Each one of you is clearly entitled to one hundred 
pounds a year by common law! ” Such had been the 
important whisper made by Finney into the ears of 
Abel Handy, and by him retailed to his eleven brethren. 

Too much must not be expected from the flesh and 
blood even of John Hiram’s bedesmen, and the posi- 
tive promise of one hundred a year to each of the 
twelve old men had its way with most of them. The 
great Bunce was not to. be wiled away, and was upheld 
in his orthodoxy by two adherents. Abel Handy, who 
was the leader of the aspirants after wealth, had, alas, 
a stronger following. No less than five of the twelve 
soon believed that his views were just, making with 
their leader a moiety of the hospital. The other three, 
volatile, unstable minds, vacillated between the two 
chieftains, now led away by the hope of gold, now 
anxious to propitiate the powers that still existed. 

It had been proposed to address a petition to the 
bishop as visitor, praying his lordship to see justice 
done to the legal recipients of John Hiram’s Charity, 
and to send copies of this petition and of the reply 
it would elicit to all the leading London papers, and 
thereby to obtain notoriety for the subject. This it 
was thought would pave the way for ulterior legal pro- 


42 


THE WARDEN. 


ceedings. It would have been a great thing to have 
had the signatures and marks of all the twelve injured 
legatees ; but this was impossible. Bunce would have 
cut his hand off sooner than have signed it. It was 
then suggested by Finney that if even eleven could be 
induced to sanction the document, the one obstinate 
recusant might have been represented as unfit to judge 
on such a question, — in fact, as being non compos men- 
tis ^ — and the petition would have been taken as rep- 
resenting the feeling of the men. But this could not 
be done : Bunce’s friends were as firm as himself, and 
as yet only six crosses adorned the document. It was 
the more provoking, as Bunce himself could write his 
name legibly, and one of those three doubting souls 
had for years boasted of like power, and possessed, 
indeed, a Bible, in which he was proud to show his 
name written by himself some thirty years ago — “Job 
Skulpit.” But it was thought that Job Skulpit, having 
forgotten his scholarship, on that account recoiled from 
the petition, and that the other doubters would follow 
as he led them. A petition signed by half the hospital 
would have but a poor effect. 

It was in Skulpit’s room that the petition was now 
lying, waiting such additional signatures as Abel Handy, 
by his eloquence, could obtain for it. The six marks 
it bore were duly attested, thus : 

his his his 

Abel -f Handy, Gregy -f- Moody, Mathew + Spriggs, 

mark mark mark 

&c., and places were duly designated in pencil for 
those brethren who were now expected to join. For 
Skulpit alone was left a spot on which his genuine sig- 


Hiram’s bed£smen. 


43 


nature might be written in fair clerklike style. Handy 
had brought in the document, and spread it out on the 
small deal table, and was now standing by it persua- 
sive and eager. Moody had followed with an inkhom, 
carefully left behind by Finney ; and Spriggs bore aloft, 
as though it were a sword, a well-worn ink-black pen, 
which from time to time he endeavoured to thrust into 
Skulpit’s unwilling hand. 

With the learned man were his two abettors in inde- 
cision, William Gazy and Jonathan Crumple. If ever 
the petition were to be forwarded, now was the time ; — 
so said Mr. Finney ; and great was the anxiety on the 
part of those whose one hundred pounds a year, as they 
believed, mainly depended on the document in question. 

To be kept out of all that money,” as the avaricious 
Moody had muttered to his friend Handy, “by an old 
fool saying that he can write his own name like his 
betters ! ” 

“Well, Job,” said* Handy, trying to impart to hL 
own sour, ill-omened visage a smile of approbation, in 
which he greatly failed ; “ so you ’re ready now, Mr. 
Finney says; here ’s the place; d’ye see;” — and he 
put his huge brown finger down on the dirty paper ; — 
“ name or mark, it ’s all one. Come along, old boy ; 
if so be we ’re to have the spending of this money, why 
the sooner the better; — that ’s my maxim.” 

“ To be sure,” said Moody. “We a’n’t none of us so 
young ; we can’t stay waiting for old Catgut no longer.” 

It was thus these miscreants named our excellent 
friend. The nickname he could easily have forgiven, 
but the allusion to the divine source of all his melodi- 
ous joy would have irritated even him. Let us hope 
he never knew the insult. 


44 


THE WARDEN. 


“ Only think, old Billy Gazy,” said Spriggs, who re- 
joiced in greater youth than his brethren, but having 
fallen into a fire when drunk, had had one eye burnt 
out, one cheek burnt through, and one arm nearly 
burnt off, and who, therefore, in regard to personal 
appearance, was not the most prepossessing of men, 
“ a hundred a year, and all to spend ; only think, old 
Billy Gazy;” and he gave a hideous grin that showed 
off his misfortunes to their full extent. 

Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm. 
Even these golden prospects did not arouse him to do 
more than rub his poor old bleared eyes with the cuff 
of his bedesman’s gown, and gently mutter ; “ he did n’t 
know, not he ; he did n’t know.” 

“But you ’d know, Jonathan,” continued Spriggs, 
turning to the other friend of Skulpit’s, who was sitting 
on a stool by the table, gazing vacantly at the petition. 
Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man, who had 
known better days ; his means had been wasted by bad 
children, who had made his life wretched till he had 
been received into the hospital, of which he had not 
long been a member. Since that day he had known 
neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him 
with new hopes was, indeed, a cruelty. 

“ A hundred a year ’s a nice thing, for sartain, neigh- 
bour Spriggs,” said he. “ I once had nigh to that my- 
self, but it did n’t do me no good.” And he gave a 
low sigh, as he thought of the children of his own loins 
who had robbed him. 

“And shall have again, Joe,” said Handy; “and 
will have some one to keep it right and tight for you 
this time.” 

Crumple sighed again. He had learned the impo- 


Hiram’s bedesmen. 


45 


tency of worldly wealth, and would have been satisfied, 
if left untempted, to have remained happy with one and 
sixpence a day. 

“ Come, Skulpit,” repeated Handy, getting impatient, 
“you ’re not going to go along with old Bunce in 
helping that parson to rob us all. Take the pen, 
man, and right yourself. Well he added, seeing that 
Skulpit still doubted, “to see a man as is afraid to 
stand by hisself, is, to my thinking, the meanest thing 
as is.” 

“ Sink them all for parsons, says I,” growled Moody ; 
“hungry beggars, as never thinks their bellies full till 
they have robbed all and everything! ” 

“ Who ’s to harm you, man ? ” argued Spriggs. “ Let 
them look never so black at you, they can’t get you 
put out when you ’re once in; — no, not old Catgut, 
with Calves to help him 1 ” I am sorry to say the arch- 
deacon himself was designated by this scurrilous allu- 
sion to his nether person. 

“ A hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose,” 
continued Handy, “my eyes! — Well, how a man ’s to 
doubt about sich a bit of cheese as that passes me. 
But some men is timorous, — some men is born with no 
pluck in them,-^some men is cowed at the very first 
sight of a gentleman’s coat and waistcoat.” 

Oh, Mr. Harding, if you had but taken the arch- 
deacon’s advice in that disputed case, when Joe Mut- 
ters was this ungrateful demagogue’s rival candidate! 

“ Afraid of a parson,” growled Moody, with a look 
of ineffable scorn. “ I tell ye what I ’d be afraid of ; 
— I ’d be afraid of not getting nothing from ’em but 
just what I could take by might and right ; — that ’s the 
most I ’d be afraid on of any parson of ’em all.” 


46 


THE WARDEN. 


But,” said Skulpit, apologetically, “ Mr. Harding ’s 
not so bad. He did give us twopence a day, did n’t 
he now? ” 

''Twopence a day!” exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, 
opening awfully the red cavern of his lost eye. 

" Twopence a day 1 ” muttered Moody with a curse ; 
" sink his twopence! ” 

" Twopence a day ! ” exclaimed Handy ; " and I ’m 
to go, hat in hand, and thank a chap for twopence a 
day, when he owes me a hundred pounds a year. No, 
thank ye ; that may do for you, but it won’t for me. 
Come, I say, Skulpit, are you a going to put your mark 
to this here paper, or are you not? ” 

Skulpit looked round in wretched indecision to his 
two friends. " What d’ye think. Bill Gazy ? ” said he. 

But Billy Gazy could n’t think. He made a noise 
like the bleating of an old sheep, which was intended 
to express the agony of his doubt, and again muttered 
that ‘ he did n’t know.’ 

" Take hold, you old cripple,” said Handy, thrust- 
ing the pen into poor Billy’s hand: "there, so — ugh! 
you old fool, you ’ve been and smeared it all, — 
there, — that ’ll do for you;— that ’s as good as the 
best name as ever was written:” and a big blotch of 
ink was presumed to represent Billy Gazy’s acquies- 
cence. 

" Now, Jonathan,” said Handy, turning to Crumple. 

" A hundred a year ’s a nice thing, for sartain,” again 
argued Crumple. " Well, neighbour Skulpit, how ’s it 
to be? ” 

" Oh, please yourself,” said Skulpit : " please your- 
self, and you ’ll please me.” 

The pen was thrust into Crumple’s hand, and a faint, 


Hiram’s bedesmen. 


47 


wandering, meaningless sign was made, betokening 
such sanction and authority as Jonathan Crumple was 
able to convey. 

“Come, Joe,” said Handy, softened by success, 
“ don’t let ’em have to say that old Bunce has a man 
like you under his thumb ; — a man that always holds his 
head in the hospital as high as Bunce himself, though 
you ’re never axed to drink wine, and sneak, and tell 
lies about your betters, as he does.” 

Skulpit held the pen, and made little flourishes with 
it in the air, but still hesitated. 

“ And if you ’ll be said by me,” continued Handy, 
“ you ’ll not write your name to it at all, but just put 
your mark like the others;” — the cloud began to clear 
from Skulpit’s brow; — “we all know you can do it if 
you like, but maybe you would n’t like to seem uppish, 
you know.” 

“ Well, the mark would be best,” said Skulpit. ' “ One 
name and the rest marks would n’t look well, would 
it?” 

“The worst in the world,” said Handy; “there — 
there;” and stooping over the petition, the learned 
clerk made a huge cross on the place left for his signa- 
ture. 

“ That ’s the game,” said Handy, triumphantly pock- 
eting the petition ; “ we ’re all in a boat now, that is, 
the nine of us ; and as for old Bunce and his cronies, 

they may ” But as he was hobbling off to the door, 

with a crutch on one side and a stick on the other, he 
was met by Bunce himself. 

“Well, Handy, and what may old Bunce do? ” said 
the grey-haired, upright senior. 

Handy muttered something, and was departing ; but 


48 


THE WARDEN. 


he was stopped in the doorway by the huge frame of 
the new-comer. 

You Ve been doing no good here, Abel Handy,” 
said he, ’t is plain to see that ; and ’t is n’t much good, 
I ’m thinking, you ever do.” 

'' I mind my own business. Master Bunce,” muttered 
the other, “ and do you do the same. It a’n’t nothing 
to you what I does; — and your spying and poking 
here won’t do no good nor yet no harm.” 

“I suppose then, Joe,” continued Bunce, not notic- 
ing his opponent, “ if the truth must out, you ’ve stuck 
your name to that petition of theirs at last.” 

Skulpit looked as though he were about to sink into 
the ground with shame! 

“ What is it to you what he signs? ” said Handy. “ I 
suppose if we all wants to ax for our own, we need n’t 
ax leave of you first, Mr. Bunce, big a man as you 
are ; and as to your sneaking in here, into Job’s room 
when he ’s busy, and where you ’re not wanted ” 

“ I ’ve knowed Joe Skulpit, man and boy, sixty 
years,” said Bunce, looking at the man of whom he 
spoke, and that ’s ever since the day he was bom. I 
knowed the mother that bore him, when she and I 
were little wee things, picking daisies together in the 
close yonder ; and I ’ve lived under the same roof with 
him more nor ten years ; and after that I may come 
into his room without axing leave, and yet no sneaking 
neither.” 

“So you can, Mr. Bunce,” said Skulpit; “so you 
can, any hour, day or night.” 

“ And I ’m free also to tell him my mind,” continued 
Bunce, looking at the one man and addressing the 
other ; “ and I tell him now that he ’s done a foolish 


Hiram’s bedesmen. 


49 


and a wrong thing. He ’s turned his back upon one 
who is his best friend ; and is playing the game of 
others, who care nothing for him, whether he be poor 
or rich, well or ill, alive or dead. A hundred a year? 
Are the lot of you soft enough to think that if a hun- 
dred a year be to be given, it ’s the likes of you that 
will get it? ” — and he pointed to Billy Gazy, Spriggs, 
and Crumple. “ Did any of us ever do anything worth 
half the money? Was it to make gentlemen of us we 
were brought in here, when all the world turned against 
us, and we could n’t longer earn our daily bread? 
A’n’t you all as. rich in your ways as he in his? ” — and 
the orator pointed to the side on which the warden 
lived. “ A’n’t you getting all you hoped for ; ay, and 
more than you hoped for? Would n’t each of you 
have given the dearest limb of his body to secure that 
which now makes you so unthankful? ” 

‘‘We wants what John Hiram left us,” said Handy. 
“ We wants what ’s ourn by law. It don’t matter what 
we expected. What ’s ourn by law should be ourn, 
and by goles we ’ll have it.” 

“ Law! ” said Bunce, with all the scorn he knew how 
to command, — “ law! Did ye ever know a poor man 
yet was the better for law, or for a lawyer? Will Mr. 
Finney ever be as good to you. Job, as that man has 
been? Will he see to you when you ’re sick, and com- 
fort you when you ’re wretched? Will he ” 

“ No, nor give you port wine, old boy, on cold win- 
ter nights! he won’t do that, will he? ” asked Handy; 
and laughing at the severity of his own wit, he and his 
colleagues retired, carrying with them, however, the 
now powerful petition. 

There is no help for spilt milk ; and Mr. Bunce 
4 


50 


THE WARDEN. 


could only retire to his own room, disgusted at the 
frailty of human nature. Job Skulpit scratched his 
head. Jonathan Crumple again remarked, that, ‘for 
sartain, sure a hundred a year was very nice ; ’ — and 
Billy Gazy again rubbed his eyes, and lowly muttered 
that ‘ he did n’t know.’ 


CHAPTER V. 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 

Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of 
our poor warden, no such weakness perplexed the 
nobler breast of his son-in-law. As the indomitable 
cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, 
shakes his feathers, and erects his comb, so did - the 
archdeacon arrange his weapons for the coming war, 
without misgiving and without fear. That he was 
fully confident of the justice of his cause let no one 
doubt. Many a man can fight his battle with good 
courage, but with a doubting conscience. Such was 
not the case with Dr. Grantly. He did not believe in 
the Gospel with more assurance than he did in the 
sacred justice of all ecclesiastical revenues. When he 
put his shoulder to the wheel to defend the income of 
the present and future precentors of Barchester, he 
was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause 
as that which gives courage to a missionary in Africa, 
or enables a sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of 
the world for the wards of a hospital. He was about 
to defend the holy of holies from the touch of the pro- 
fane ; to guard the citadel of his church from the most 
rampant of its enemies ; to put on his good armour in 
the best of fights ; and secure, if possible, the comforts 
of his creed for coming generations of ecclesiastical 


52 


THE WARDEN. 


dignitaries. Such a work required no ordinary vigour ; 
and the archdeacon was, therefore, extraordinarily vig- 
orous. It demanded a buoyant courage, and a heart 
happy in its toil ; and the archdeacon’s heart was happy, 
and his courage was buoyant. 

He knew that he would not be able to animate his 
father-in-law with feelings like his own, but this did not 
much disturb him. He preferred to bear the brunt of 
the battle alone, and did not doubt that the warden 
would resign himself into his hands with passive sub- 
mission. 

“ Well, Mr. Chadwick,” he said, walking into the 
steward’s office a day or two after the signing of the 
petition as commemorated in the last chapter : any- 
thing from Cox and Cummins this morning? ” Mr. 
Chadwick handed him a letter, which he read, stroking 
the tight-gaitered calf of his right leg as he did so. 
Messrs. Cox and Cummins merely said that they had 
as yet received no notice from their adversaries ; that 
they could recommend no preliminary steps ; but that 
should any proceeding really be taken by the bedes- 
men, it would be expedient to consult that very emi- 
nent Queen’s Counsel, Sir Abraham Haphazard. 

I quite agree with them,” said Dr. Grantly, refold- 
ing the letter. I perfectly agree with them. Hap- 
hazard is no doubt the best man ; a thorough church- 
man, a sound Conservative, and in every respect the 
best man we could get. He ’s in the house, too, which 
is a great thing.” 

Mr. Chadwick quite agreed. 

“You remember how completely he put down that 
scoundrel Horseman about the Bishop of Beverley’s 
income ; how completely he set them all adrift in the 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 


53 


earl’s case.” Since the question of St. Cross had been 
mooted by the public, one noble lord had become 
“ the earl,'' par excellence, in the doctor’s estimation. 
“ How he silenced that fellow at Rochester. Of course 
we must have Haphazard ; and I ’ll tell you what, Mr. 
Chadwick, we must take care to be in time, or the 
other party will forestall us.” 

With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor 
seemed to think it not impossible that that great man 
might be induced to lend his gigantic powers to the 
side of the church’s enemies. 

Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the 
doctor stepped down to the hospital, to learn how mat- 
ters were going on there ; and as he walked across the 
hallowed close, and looked up at the ravens who cawed 
with a peculiar reverence as he wended his way, he 
thought with increased acerbity of those whose impiety 
would venture to disturb the goodly grace of cathedral 
institutions. 

And who has not felt the same? We believe that 
Mr. Horsman himself would relent, and the spirit of 
Sir Benjamin Hall give way, were those great reform- 
ers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight round 
the towers of some of our ancient- churches. Who 
would not feel charity for a prebendary, when walking 
the quiet length of that long aisle at Winchester, look- 
ing at those decent houses, that trim grassplat, and 
feeling, as one must, the solemn, orderly comfort of the 
spot ! Who could be hard upon a dean while wander- 
ing round the sweet close of Hereford, and owning that 
in that precinct, tone and colour, design and form, 
solemn tower and storied window, are all in unison, 
and all perfect ! Who could lie basking in the cloisters 


54 


THE WARDEN. 


of Salisbury, and gaze on Jewel’s library and that un- 
equalled spire, without feeling that bishops should some- 
times be rich! 

The tone of our archdeacon’s mind must not astonish 
us ; it has been the growth of centuries of church as- 
cendency; and though some fungi now disfigure the 
tree, though there be much dead wood, for how much 
good fruit have not we to be thankful? Who, without 
remorse, can batter down the dead branches of an old 
oak, now useless, but, ah! still so beautiful, or drag 
out the fragments of the ancient forest, without feeling 
that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they 
are now summoned to give way in a tone so peremp- 
tory and so harsh? 

The archdeacon, with all his virtues, was not a man 
of delicate feeling ; and after having made his morn- 
ing salutations in the warden’s drawing-room, he did 
not scruple to commence an attack on ‘pestilent’ 
John Bold in the presence of Miss Harding, though 
he rightly guessed that that lady was not indifferent to 
the name of his enemy. 

“ Nelly, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the 
back room,” said her father, anxious to save both her 
blushes and her feelings. 

Eleanor brought the spectacles, while her father was 
trying, in ambiguous phrases, to explain to her too- 
practical brother-in-law that it might be as well not to 
say anything about Bold before her, and then retreated. 
Nothing had been explained to her about Bold and the 
hospital ; but, with a woman’s instinct, she knew that 
things were going wrong. 

“ We must soon be doing something,” commenced 
the archdeacon, wiping his brows with a large, bright- 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 


55 


coloured handkerchief, for he had felt busy, and had 
walked quick, and it was a broiling summer’s day. 
“ Of course you have heard of the petition? ” 

Mr. Harding owned, somewhat unwillingly, that he 
had heard of it. 

“Well!” The archdeacon looked for some expres- 
sion of opinion, but none coming, he continued, — “ We 
must be doing something, you know ; we must n’t al- 
low these people to cut the ground from under us 
while we sit looking on.” The archdeacon, who was 
a practical man, allowed himself the use of every-day 
expressive modes of speech when among his closest in- 
timates, though no one could soar into a more intricate 
labyrinth of refined phraseology when the church was 
the subject, and his lower brethren were his auditors. 

The warden still looked mutely in his face, making 
the slightest possible passes with an imaginary fiddle 
bow, and stopping, as he did so, sundry imaginary 
strings with the fingers of his other hand. ’T was his 
constant consolation in conversational troubles. While 
these vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and 
slow, and the upper hand would not be seen to work ; 
nay the strings on which it operated would sometimes 
lie concealed in the musician’s pocket, and the instru- 
ment on which he played would be beneath his chair. 
But as his spirit warmed to the subject, — as his trusting 
heart, looking to the bottom of that which vexed him, 
would see its clear way out, — he would rise to a higher 
melody, sweep the unseen strings' with a bolder hand, 
and swiftly fingering the cords from his neck, down 
along his waistcoat, and up again to his very ear, create 
an ecstatic strain of perfect music, audible to himself 
and to St, Cecilia, and not without effect. 


56 


THE WARDEN. 


‘‘ I quite agree with Cox and Cummins,” continued 
the archdeacon. “ They say we must secure Sir Abra- 
ham Haphazard. . I shall not have the slighest fear in 
leaving the case in Sir Abraham’s hands.” The warden 
played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was but 
a dirge on one string. I think Sir Abraham will not 
be long in letting Master Bold know what he ’s about. 
I fancy I hear Sir Abraham cross-questioning him at 
the Common Pleas.” The warden thought of his in- 
come being thus discussed, his modest life, his daily 
habits, and his easy work ; and nothing issued from 
that single cord but a low wail of sorrow. ‘‘ I suppose 
they Ve sent this petition up to my father.” The 
warden did n’t know ; he imagined they would do so 
this very day. '' What I can’t understand is, how you 
let them do it, with such a command as you have in 
the place, or should have with such a man as Bunce. 
I cannot understand why you let them do it.” 

“ Do what? ” asked the warden. 

Why, listen to this fellow Bold, and that other low 
pettifogger, Finney; — and get up this petition too. 
Why did n’t you tell Bunce to destroy the petition? ” 
“That would have been hardly wise,” said the 
warden. 

“ Wise ; — yes, it would have been very wise if they ’d 
done it among themselves. I must go up to the palace 
and answer it now, I suppose. It ’s a very short answer 
they ’ll get, I can tell you.” < 

“ But why should n’t they petition, doctor? ” 

“Why should n’t they!” responded the archdeacon, 
in a loud, brazen voice, as though all the men in the 
hospital were expected to hear him through the walls ; 
“why should n’t they? I ’ll let them know why they 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 


57 


should n’t. By-the-by, warden, I ’d like to say a few 
words to them all together.” 

The warden’s mind misgave him, and even for a 
moment he forgot to play. He by no means wished 
to delegate to his son-in-law his place and authority of 
warden ; he had expressly determined not to interfere 
in any step which the men might wish to take in the 
matter under dispute ; he was most anxious neither to 
accuse them nor to defend himself. All these things 
he was aware the archdeacon would do in his behalf, 
and that not in the mildest manner ; and yet he knew 
not how to refuse the permission requested. “ I ’d so 
much sooner remain quiet in the matter,” said he, in 
an apologetic voice. 

“ Quiet! ” said the archdeacon, still speaking with his 
brazen trumpet ; do you wish to be ruined in quiet? ” 
Why ; if I am to be ruined, certainly.” 

‘'Nonsense, warden; I tell you something must be 
done. We must act; just let me ring the bell, and 
send the men word that I ’ll speak to them in the 
quad.” 

Mr. Harding knew not how to resist, and the disa- 
greeable order was given. The quad, as it was famil- 
iarly called, was a small quadrangle, open on one side 
to the river, and surrounded on the others by the high 
wall of Mr. Harding’s garden, by one gable end of 
Mr. Harding’s house, and by the end of the row of 
buildings which formed the residences of the bedes- 
men. It was flagged all round, and the centre was 
stoned ; small stone gutters ran from the four comers 
of the square to a grating in the centre ; and attached 
to the end of Mr. Harding’s house was a conduit with 
four cocks covered over from the weather, at which 


$8 


THE WARDEN. 


the old men got their water, and very generally per- 
formed their morning toilet. It was a quiet, sombre 
place, shaded over by the trees of the warden’s garden. 
On the side towards the river there stood a row of stone 
seats, on which the old men would sit and gaze at the 
little fish, as they flitted by in the running stream. On 
the other side of the river was a rich, green meadow, 
running up to and joining the deanery, and as little 
open to the public as the garden of the dean itself. 
Nothing, therefore, could be more private than the 
quad of the hospital ; and it was there that the arch- 
deacon determined to convey to them his sense of their 
refractory proceedings. 

The servant soon brought in word that the men 
were assembled in the quad, and the archdeacon, big 
with his purpose, rose to address them. 

Well, warden, of course you ’re coming,” said he, 
seeing that Mr. Harding did not prepare to follow him. 

“ I wish you ’d excuse me,” said Mr. Harding. 

“ For heaven’s sake, don’t let us have division in the 
camp,” replied the archdeacon. “ Let us have a long 
pull and a strong pull, but above all a pull all together ; 
come, warden, come ; don’t be afraid of your duty.” 

Mr. Harding was afraid ; he was afraid that he was 
being led to do that which was not his duty. He was 
not, however, strong enough to resist, so he got up and 
followed his son-in-law. 

The old men were assembled in groups in the quad- 
rangle ; — eleven of them at least, for poor old Johnny 
Bell was bed-ridden, and could n’t come ; he had, how- 
ever, put his mark to the petition, as one of Handy’s 
earliest followers. ’T is true he could not move from 
the bed where he lay ; ’t is true he had no friend on 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 


59 


earth but those whom the hospital contained ; and of 
those the warden and his daughter were the most con- 
stant and most appreciated ; ’t is true that everything 
was administered to him which his failing body could 
require, or which his faint appetite could enjoy ; but 
still his dull eye had glistened for a moment at the idea 
of possessing a hundred pounds a year “to his own 
cheek,” as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it ; 
and poor old Johnny Bell had greedily put his mark to 
the petition. 

When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncov- 
ered their heads. Handy was slow to do it, and hesi- 
tated ; but the black coat and waistcoat, of which he 
had spoken so irreverently in Skulpit’s room, had its 
effect even on him, and he too doffed his hat. Bunce, 
advancing before the others, bowed lowly to the arch- 
deacon, and with affectionate reverence expressed his 
wish, that the warden and Miss Eleanor were quite 
well ; “ and the doctor’s lady,” he added, turning to 
the archdeacon, “ and the children at Plumstead, and 
my lord ; ” and having made his speech, he also retired 
among the others, and took his place with the rest upon 
the stone benches. 

As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, 
erect in the middle of that little square, he looked like 
an ecclesiastical statue placed there, as a fitting imper- 
sonation of the church militant here on earth ; his shovel 
hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman’s hat 
in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as 
does the Quaker’s broad brim; his heavy eyebrows, 
large open eyes, and full mouth and chin expressed the 
solidity of his order ; the broad chest, amply covered 
with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate ; one 


6o 


THE WARDEN. 


hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the prac- 
tical hold which our mother church keeps on her tem- 
poral possessions ; and the other, loose for action, was 
ready to fight if need be in her defence ; and, below 
these, the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters 
showing so admirably that well-turned leg, betokened 
the stability, the decency, the outward beauty and grace 
of our church establishment. 

“ Now, my men,” he began, when he had settled 
himself well in his position, “ I want to say a few words 
to you. Your good friend, the warden here, and my- 
self, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf I wish 
to speak to you, would all be very sorry, very sorry 
indeed, that you should have any just ground of com- 
plaint. Any just ground of complaint on your part 
would be removed at once by the warden, or by his 
lordship, or by me on his behalf, without the necessity 
of any petition on your part.” Here the orator stopped 
for a moment, expecting that some little murmurs of 
applause would show that the weakest of the men were 
beginning to give way ; but no such murmurs came. 
Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and 
unsatisfactory. “ Without the necessity of any petition 
at all,” he repeated. “ I ’m told you have addressed a 
petition to my lord.” He paused for a reply from the 
men, and after a while. Handy plucked up courage, 
and said, “ Yes, we has.” 

” You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, 
as I am informed, you express an opinion that you do 
not receive from Hiram’s estate all that is your due.” 
Here most of the men expressed their assent. Now 
what is it you ask for? What is it you want that you 
have n’t got here? What is it ” 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 


6l 


“ A hundred a year,” muttered old Moody, with a 
voice as if it came out of the ground. 

‘‘ A hundred a year ! ” ejaculated the archdeacon 
militant, defying the impudence of these claimants 
with one hand stretched out and closed, while with 
the other he tightly grasped, and secured within his 
breeches pocket, that symbol of the church’s wealth 
which his own loose half-crowns not unaptly repre- 
sented. “A hundred a year! Why, my men, you 
must be mad! And you talk about John Hiram’s 
will! When John Hiram built a hospital for worn-out 
old men, worn-out old labouring men, infirm old men 
past their work, cripples, blind, bed-ridden, and such 
like, do you think he meant to make gentlemen of 
them? Do you think John Hiram intended to give a 
hundred a year to old single men, who earned perhaps 
two shillings or half-a-crown a day for themselves and 
families in the best of their time? No, my men! I ’ll 
tell you what John Hiram meant; he meant that 
twelve poor old worn-out labourers, men who could 
no longer support themselves, who had no friends to 
support them, who must starve and perish miserably if 
not protected by the hand of charity ; — he meant that 
twelve such men as these should cpme in here in their 
poverty and wretchedness, and find within these walls 
shelter and food before their death, and a little leisure 
to make their peace with God. That was what John 
Hiram meant. You have not read John Hiram’s will, 
and I doubt whether those wicked men who are advis- 
ing you have done so. I have ; I know what his will 
was ; and I tell you that that was his will, and that 
that was his intention.” 

Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as 


62 


THE WARDEN. 


they sat listening to what, according to the archdeacon, 
was their intended estate. They grimly stared upon 
his burly figure, but did not then express, by word or 
sign, the anger and disgust to which such language was 
sure to give rise. 

Now let me ask you,” he continued ; “ do you think 
you are worse off than John Hiram intended to make 
you? Have you not shelter, and food, and leisure? 
Have you not much more? Have you not every in- 
dulgence which you are capable of enjoying? Have 
you not twice better food, twice a better bed, ten times 
more money in your pocket than you were ever able 
to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough 
to get into this place? And now you sent a petition 
to the bishop, asking for a hundred pounds a year! 
I tell you what, my friends ; you are deluded, and 
made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their 
own ends. You will never get a hundred pence a year 
more than what you have now. It is very possible that 
you may get less ; it is very possible that my lord, the 
bishop, and your warden, may make changes ” 

“No, no, no,” interrupted Mr. Harding, who had 
been listening with indescribable misery to the tirade of 
his son-in-law ; “ no, my friends. I want no changes ; 
— at least no changes that shall make you worse off than 
you now are, as long as you and I live together.” 

“ God bless you, Mr. Harding,” said Bunce ; and 
“ God bless you, Mr. Harding ; God bless you, sir : 
we know you was always our friend,” was exclaimed 
by enough of the men to make it appear that the sen- 
timent was general. 

The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech 
before he had quite finished it ; but he felt that he 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 


63 


could not recommence with dignity after this little 
ebullition, and he led the way back into the garden, 
followed by his father-in-law. 

“Well,” said he, as soon as he found himself within 
the cool retreat of the warden’s garden ; “ I think I 
spoke to them plainly.” And he wiped the perspira- 
tion from his brow ; for making a speech under a broil- 
ing mid-day sun in summer, in a full suit of thick black 
cloth, is warm work. 

“ Yes, you were plain enough,” replied the warden, 
in a tone which did not express approbation. 

“And that ’s everything,” said the other, who was 
clearly well satisfied with himself ; “ that ’s everything. 
With those sort of people one must be plain, or one 
will not be understood. Now, I think they did under- 
stand me ; — I think they knew what I meant.” 

The warden agreed. He certainly thought they had 
understood to the full what had been said to them. 

“ They know pretty well what they have to expect 
from us ; they know how we shall meet any refractory 
spirit on their part ; they know that we are not afraid 
of them. And now I ’ll just step into Chadwick’s, and 
tell him what I ’ve done ; and then I ’ll go up to the 
palace, and answer this petition of theirs.” 

The warden’s mind was very full, — full nearly to over- 
charging itself ; and had it done so, — had he allowed 
himself to speak the thoughts which were working 
within him, he would indeed have astonished the arch- 
deacon by the reprobation he would have expressed as 
to the proceeding of which he had been so unwilling 
a witness. But different feelings kept him silent ; he 
was as yet afraid of differing from his son-in-law, — he 
was anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance 


64 


THE WARDEN. 


of rupture with any of his order, and was painfully 
fearful of having to come to an open quarrel with any 
person on any subject. His life had hitherto been 
so quiet, so free from strife ; his little early troubles 
had required nothing but passive fortitude ; his subse- 
quent prosperity had never forced upon him any active 
cares, — had never brought him into disagreeable con- 
tact with any one. He felt that he would give almost 
anything, — much more than he knew he ought to give, 
— to relieve himself from the storm which he feared 
was coming. It was so hard that the pleasant waters 
of his little stream should be disturbed and muddied 
by rough hands ; that his quiet paths should be made 
a battle-field ; that the unobtrusive comer of the world 
which had been allotted to him, as though by Provi- 
dence, should be invaded and desecrated, and all within 
it made miserable and unsound. 

Money he had none to give ; the knack of putting 
guineas together had never belonged to him ; but how 
willingly, with what a foolish easiness, with what happy 
alacrity, would he have abandoned the half of his in- 
come for all time to come, could he by so doing have 
quietly dispelled the clouds that were gathering over 
him, — could he have thus compromised the matter be- 
tween the reformer and the Conservative, between his 
possible son-in-law. Bold, and his positive son-in-law, 
the archdeacon. 

And this compromise would not have been made 
from any prudential motive of saving what would yet 
remain, for Mr. Harding still felt little doubt but he 
should be left for life in quiet possession of the good 
things he had, if he chose to retain them. No; he 
would have done so from the sheer love of quiet, and 


DR. GRANTLY VISITS THE HOSPITAL. 65 

from a horror of being made the subject of public talk. 
He had very often been moved to pity, — to that in- 
ward weeping of the heart for others’ woes ; but none 
had he ever pitied more than that old lord, whose 
almost fabulous wealth, drawn from his church prefer- 
ments, had become the subject of so much opprobrium, 
of such public scorn ; that wretched clerical octogena- 
rian Croesus, whom men would not allow to die in 
peace, — whom all the world united to decry and to 
abhor. 

Was he to suffer such a fate? Was his humble name 
to be bandied in men’s mouths, as the gormandiser of 
the resources of the poor, as of one who had filched 
from the charity of other ages wealth which had been 
intended to relieve the old and the infirm? Was he 
to be gibbeted in the press, to become a byword for 
oppression, to be named as an example of the greed of 
the English church? Should it ever be said that he 
had robbed those old men, whom he so truly and so 
tenderly loved in his heart of hearts? As he slowly 
paced, hour after hour, under those noble lime-trees, 
turning these sad thoughts within him, he became all 
but fixed in his resolve that some great step must be 
taken to relieve him from the risk o£ so terrible a fate. 

In the meanwhile, the archdeacon, with contented 
mind and unruffled spirit, went about his business. 
He said a word or two to Mr. Chadwick, and then 
finding, as he expected, the petition lying in his father’s 
library, he wrote a short answer to the men, in which he 
told them that they had no evils to redress, but rather 
great mercies for which to be thankful; and having 
seen the bishop sign it, he got into his brougham and re- 
turned home to Mrs. Grantly, and Plumstead Episcopi. 

S 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 

After much painful doubting, on one thing only 
could Mr. Harding resolve. He determined that at 
any rate he would take no offence, and that he would 
make this question no cause of quarrel either with Bold 
or with the bedesmen. In furtherance of this resolu- 
tion, he himself wrote a note to Mr. Bold, the same 
afternoon, inviting him to meet a few friends and hear 
some music on an evening named in the next week. 
Had not this little party been promised to Eleanor, in 
his present state of mind he would probably have 
avoided such gaiety ; but the promise had been given, 
the invitations were to be written, and when Eleanor 
consulted her father on the subject, she was not ill 
pleased to hear him say, “ Oh, I was thinking of Bold, 
so I took it into my head to write to him myself ; but 
you must write to his sister.” 

Mary Bold was older than her brother, and, at the 
time of our story, was just over thirty. She was not 
an unattractive young woman, though by no means 
beautiful. Her great merit was the kindliness of her 
disposition. She was not very clever, nor very ani- 
mated, nor had she apparently the energy of her 
brother ; but she was guided by a high principle of 
right and wrong ; her temper was sweet, and her faults 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 


67 


were fewer in number than her virtues. Those who 
casually met Mary Bold thought little of her ; but those 
who knew her well loved her well, and the longer they 
knew her the more they loved her. Among those who 
were fondest of her was Eleanor Harding ; and though 
Eleanor had never openly talked to her of her brother, 
each understood the other’s feelings about him. The 
-brother and sister were sitting together when the two 
notes were brought in. 

“ How odd,” said Mary, that they should send two 
notes. Well, if Mr. Harding becomes fashionable, the 
world is going to change.” 

Her brother understood immediately the nature and 
intention of the peace-offering ; but it was not so easy 
for him to behave well in the matter as it was for Mr. 
Harding. It is much less difficult for the sufferer to 
be generous than for the oppressor. John Bold felt 
that he could not go to the warden’s party. He never 
loved Eleanor better than he did now ; he had never 
so strongly felt how anxious he was to make her his 
wife as now, when so many obstacles to his doing so 
appeared in view. Yet here was her father himself, 
as it were, clearing away those very obstacles, and still 
he felt that he could not go to the house any more as 
an open friend. 

As he sat thinking of these things with the note in 
his hand, his sister was waiting for his decision. 

“ Well,” said she, “ I suppose we must write separate 
answers, and both say we shall be very happy.” 

“You ’ll go, of course, Mary,” said he; to which 
she readily assented. “ I cannot,” he continued, look- 
ing serious and gloomy. “ I wish I could, with all my 
heart.” 


68 


THE WARDEN. 


“And why not, John? ” said she. She had as yet 
heard nothing of the new-found abuse which her 
brother was about to reform ; — at least nothing which 
connected it with her brother’s name. 

He sat thinking for a while till he determined that it 
would be best to tell her at once what it was that he 
was about. It must be done sooner or later. 

“ I fear I cannot go to Mr. Harding’s house any more 
as a friend, just at present.” 

“Oh, John! Why not? Ah; you’ve quarrelled 
with Eleanor ! ” 

“ No, indeed,” said he ; “I ’ve no quarrel with her 
as yet.” 

“ What is it, John? ” said she, looking at him with an 
anxious, loving face, for she knew well how much of 
his heart was there in that house which he said he 
could no longer enter. 

“ Why,” said he at last, “ I ’ve taken up the case of 
these twelve old men of Hiram’s Hospital, and of 
course that brings me into contact with Mr. Harding. 
I may have to oppose him, interfere with him, — per- 
haps injure him.” 

Mary looked at him steadily for some time before 
she committed herself to reply, and then merely asked 
him what he meant to do for the old men. 

“ Why, it ’s a long story, and I don’t know that I can 
make you understand it. John Hiram made a will, 
and left his property in charity for certain poor old 
men, and the proceeds, instead of going to the bene- 
fit of these men, goes chiefly into the pocket of the 
warden, and the bishop’s steward.” 

“ And you mean to take away from Mr. Harding his 
share of it? ” 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 69 

I don’t know what I mean yet. I mean to inquire 
about it. I mean to see who is entitled to this prop- 
erty. I mean to see, if I can, that justice be done to 
the poor of the city of Barchester generally, who are, 
in fact, the legatees under the will. I mean, in short, 
to put the matter right, if I can.” 

” And why are you to do this, John? ” 

” You might ask the same question of anybody else,” 
said he ; ‘‘ and according to that, the duty of righting 
these poor men would belong to nobody. If we are 
to act on that principle, the weak are never to be pro- 
tected, injustice is never to be opposed, and no one is 
to struggle for the poor!” And Bold began to com- 
fort himself in the warmth of his own virtue. 

“ But is there no one to do this but you, who have 
known Mr. Harding so long? Surely, John, as a friend, 
as a young friend, so much younger than Mr. Hard- 
ing ” 

‘‘ That ’s woman’s logic, all over, Mary. What has 
age to do with it? Another man might plead that he 
was too old ; and as to his friendship, if the thing itself 
be right, private motives should never be allowed to 
interfere. Because I esteem Mr. Harding, is that a 
reason that I should neglect a duty which I owe to 
these old men? Or should I give up a work which 
my conscience tells me is a good one, because I regret 
the loss of his society? ” 

“And Eleanor, John? ” said the sister, looking timidly 
into her brother’s face. 

“ Eleanor, that is. Miss Harding, if she thinks fit, — 
that is, if her father, — or rather, if she, — or, indeed, he, 
— if they find it necessary . But there is no ne- 

cessity now to talk about Eleanor Harding. This I 


70 


THE WARDEN. 


will say, that if she has the kind of spirit for which 1 
give her credit, she will not condemn me for doing 
what I think to be a duty.” And Bold consoled him- 
self with the consolation of a Roman. 

Mary sat silent for a while, till at last her brother 
reminded her that the notes must be answered, and 
she got up, and placed her desk before her, took out 
her pen and paper, wrote on it slowly, — 

“ Pakenham Villas, Tuesday morning. 

'' My dear Eleanor, 

-I » 

and then stopped and looked at her brother. 

“Well, Mary, why don’t you write it? ” 

“ Oh, John,” said she, “ dear John, pray think better 
of this.” 

“ Think better of what? ” said he. 

“ Of this about the hospital, — of all this about Mr. 
Harding, — of what you say about those old men. 
Nothing can call upon you, — ^no duty can require you 
to set yomself against your oldest, your best friend. 
Oh, John, think of Eleanor. You ’ll break her heart 
and your own.” 

“Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding’s heart is as safe 
as yours.” 

“Pray, pray, for my sake, John, give it up. You 
know how dearly you love her.” And she came and 
knelt before him on the rug. “ Pray give it up. You 
are going to make yourself, and her, and her father 
miserable. You are going to make us all miserable. 
And for what? For a dream of justice. You will never 
make those twelve men happier than they now are.” 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 


You don’t understand it, my dear girl,” said he, 
smoothing her hair with his hand. 

“ I do understand it, John. I understand that this 
is a chimera, — a dream that you have got. I know 
well that no duty can require you to do this mad, — 
this suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Harding 
with all your heart, and I tell you now that she loves 
you as well. If there was a plain, a positive duty be- 
fore you, I would be the last to bid you neglect it for 
any woman’s love ; but this ; oh, think again, be- 

fore you do anything to make it necessary that you 
and Mr. Harding should be at variance.” He did 
not answer, as she knelt there, leaning on his knees, 
but by his face she thought that he was inclined to 
yield. “ At any rate let me say that you will go to this 
party. At any rate do not break with them while 
your mind is in doubt.” And she got up, hoping to 
conclude her note in the way she desired. 

“ My mind is not in doubt,” at last he said, rising. 
“ I could never respect myself again, were I to give 
way now, because Eleanor Harding is beautiful. I do 
love her. I would give a hand to hear her tell me 
what you have said, speaking on her behalf. But I 
cannot for her sake go back from the task which I 
have commenced. I hope she may hereafter acknowl- 
edge and respect my motives, but I cannot now go as 
a guest to her father’s house.” And the Barchester 
Brutus went out to fortify his own resolution by medi- 
tations on his own virtue. 

Poor Mary Bold sat down and sadly finished her 
note, saying that she would herself attend the party, 
but that her brother was unavoidably prevented from 
doing so. I fear that she did not admire as she 


72 


THE WARDEN. 


should have done the self-devotion of his singular 
virtue. 

The party went off as such parties do. There were 
fat old ladies in fine silk dresses, and slim young 
ladies in gauzy muslin frocks; old gentlemen stood 
up with their backs to the empty fireplace, looking by 
no means so comfortable as they would have done 
in their own arm-chairs at home ; and young gentle- 
men, rather stiff about the neck, clustered near the 
door, not as yet sufficiently in courage to attack the 
muslin frocks, who awaited the battle, drawn up in a 
semicircular array. The warden endeavoured to in- 
duce a charge, but failed signally, not having the tact 
of a general ; his daughter did what she could to com- 
fort the forces under her command, who took in re- 
freshing rations of cake and tea, and patiently looked 
for the coming engagement. But she herself, Eleanor, 
had no spirit for the work ; the only enemy whose 
lance she cared to encounter was not there, and she 
and others were somewhat dull. 

Loud above all voices was heard the clear sonorous 
tones of the archdeacon as he dilated to brother par- 
sons of the danger of the chiurch, of the fearful rumours 
of mad reforms even at Oxford, and of the damnable 
heresies of Dr. Whiston. 

Soon, however, sweeter sounds began timidly to make 
themselves audible. Little movements were made in 
a quarter notable for round stools and music stands. 
Wax candles were arranged in sconces, big books were 
brought from hidden recesses, and the work of the 
evening commenced. 

How often were those pegs twisted and retwisted 
before our friend found that he had twisted them 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 


73 


enough ; how many discordant scrapes gave promise 
of the coming harmony ! How much the muslin flut- 
tered and crumpled before Eleanor and another nymph 
were duly seated at the piano ; how closely did that 
tall Apollo pack himself against the wall, with his flute, 
long as himself, extending high over the heads of his 
pretty neighbours ; into how small a corner crept that 
round and florid little minor canon, and there with skill 
amazing found room to tune his accustomed fiddle! 

And now the crash begins. Away they go in full 
flow of harmony together, — up hill and down dale, — 
now louder and louder, then lower and lower; now 
loud, as though stirring the battle ; then low, as though 
mourning the slain. In all, through all, and above all, 
is heard the violoncello. Ah, not for nothing were 
those pegs so twisted and retwisted. Listen, listen! 
Now alone that saddest of instruments tells its touch- 
ing tale. Silent, and in awe, stand fiddle, flute, and 
piano, to hear the sorrows of their wailing brother. 
’T is but for a moment. Before the melancholy of 
those low notes has been fully realised, again comes 
the full force of all the band. Down go the pedals. 
Away rush twenty fingers scouring over the bass notes 
with all the impetus of passion. Apollo blows till his 
stiff neckcloth is no better than a rope, and the minor 
canon w'orks with both arms till he falls into a syncope 
of exhaustion against the wall. 

How comes it that now, when all should be silent, 
when courtesy, if not taste, should make men listen, — 
how is it at this moment the black-coated corps leave 
their retreat and begin skirmishing?. One by one they 
creep forth, and fire off little guns timidly, and with- 
out precision. Ah, my men, efforts such as these wil] 


74 


THE WARDEN. 


take no cities, even though the enemy should be never 
so open to assault. At length a more deadly artillery 
is brought to bear ; slowly, but with effect, the ad- 
vance is made ; the muslin ranks are broken, and fall 
into confusion ; the formidable array of chairs gives 
way ; the battle is no longer between opposing regi- 
ments, but hand to hand, and foot to foot with single 
combatants, as in the glorious days of old, when fighting 
was really noble. In comers, and under the shadow 
of curtains, behind sofas and half hidden by doors, in 
retiring windows, and sheltered by hanging tapestry, 
are blows given and returned, fatal, incurable, dealing 
death. 

Apart from this another combat arises, more sober 
and more serious. The archdeacon is engaged against 
two prebendaries, a pursy full-blown rector assisting 
him, in all the perils and all the enjoyments of short 
whist. With solemn energy do they watch the shuffled 
pack, and, all-expectant, eye the coming trump. With 
what anxious nicety do they arrange their cards, jeal- 
ous of each other’s eyes ! Why is that lean doctor so 
slow, — cadaverous man with hollow jaw and sunken 
eye, ill beseeming the richness of his mother church! 
Ah, why so slow, thou meagre doctor? See how the 
archdeacon, speechless in his agony, deposits on the 
board his cards, and looks to heaven or to the ceiling 
for support. Hark, how he sighs, as with thumbs in 
his waistcoat pocket he seems to signify that the end 
of such torment is not yet even nigh at hand! Vain 
is the hope, if hope there be, to disturb that meagre 
doctor. With care precise he places every card, weighs 
well the value of each mighty ace, each guarded king, 
and comfort-giving queen ; speculates on knave and 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 


75 


ten, counts all his suits, and sets his price upon the 
whole. At length a card is led, and quick three others 
fall upon the board. The little doctor leads again, 
while with lustrous eye his partner absorbs the trick. 
Now thrice has this been done, — thrice has constant 
fortune favoured the brace of prebendaries, ere the 
archdeacon rouses himself to the battle. But at the 
fourth assault he pins to the earth a prostrate king, 
laying low his crown and sceptre, bushy beard, and 
lowering brow, with a poor deuce. 

“ As David did Goliath,” says the archdeacon, push- 
ing over the four cards to his partner. And then a 
trump is led, then another trump ; then a king, — and 
then an ace, — and then a long ten, which brings down 
from the meagre doctor his only remaining tower of 
strength, — his cherished queen of trumps. 

^'What, no second club?” says the archdeacon to 
his partner. 

“ Only one club,” mutters from his inmost stomach 
the pursy rector, who sits there red faced, silent, im- 
pervious, careful, a safe but not a brilliant ally. 

But the archdeacon cares not for many clubs, or for 
none. He dashes out his remaining cards with a speed 
most annoying to his antagonists, pushes over to them 
some four cards as their allotted portion, shoves the 
remainder across the table to the red-faced rector; 
calls out two by cards and two by honours, and the 
odd trick last time,” marks a treble under the candle- 
stick, and has dealt round the second pack before the 
meagre doctor has calculated his losses. 

And so went off the warden’s party, and men and 
women arranging shawls and shoes declared how 
pleasant it had been ; and Mrs. Goodenough, the red* 


76 


THE WARDEN. 


faced rector’s wife, pressing the warden’s hand, de- 
clared she had never enjoyed herself better; — which 
showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this 
world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the 
same chair without occupation, not speaking, and un- 
spoken to. And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed 
young Dickson of the bank to fasten her cloak round 
her neck, thought that two hundred pounds a year and 
a little cottage would really do for happiness ; — besides,* 
he was suie to be manager some day. And Apollo, 
folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had ac- 
quitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon 
pleasantly jingled his gains ; but the meagre doctor 
went off without much audible speech, muttering ever 
and anon as he went, “ three and thirty points ! ” “ three 
and thirty points! ” 

And so they all were gone, and Mr. Harding was 
left alone with his daughter. 

What had passed between Eleanor Harding and 
Mary Bold need not be told. It is indeed a matter of 
thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist 
hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or 
how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the 
present case so little of this sort have I overheard, 
that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 
pages, and of completing that pleasant task — a novel 
in one volume; but something had passed between 
them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, 
and put his instrument into its case, his daughter stood 
sad and thoughtful by the empty fireplace, determined 
to speak to her father, but irresolute as to what she 
would say. 

“ Well, Eleanor,” said he ; “ are you for bed? ’’ 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 


77 


Yes,” said she, moving, I suppose so ; but 

papa . Mr. Bold was not here to-night ; do you 

know why not? ” 

“ He was asked ; I wrote to him myself,” said the 
warden. 

'' But do you know why he did not come, papa? ” 

‘'Well, Eleanor, I could guess ; but it ’s no use guess- 
ing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so 
earnest about it? ” 

“ Oh, papa, do tell me,” she exclaimed, throwing her 
arms round him, and looking into his face ; “ what is 
it he is going to do? What is it all about? Is there 
any — any — any — ” she did n’t well know what word 
to use — “any danger? ” 

“ Danger, my dear, what sort of danger? ” 

“ Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and 

of . Oh, papa, why have n’t you told me of all 

this before ? ” 

Mr. Harding was not the man to judge harshly of 
any one, much less of the daughter whom he now 
loved better than any living creature ; but still he did 
judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that 
she loved John Bold; he fully sympathised in her af- 
fection ; day after day he thought more of the matter, 
and, with the tender care of a loving father, tried to 
arrange in his own mind how matters might be so 
managed that his daughter’s heart should not be made 
the sacrifice to the dispute which was likely to exist be- 
tween him and Bold. Now, when she spoke to him 
for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he 
should think more of her than of himself, and that he 
should imagine that her own cares, and not his, were 
troubling her. 


78 


THE WARDEN. 


He Stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up 
into his face, and then kissing her forehead he placed 
her on the sofa. 

''Tell me, Nelly,” he said (he only called her Nelly 
in his kindest, softest, sweetest moods ; and yet all his 
moods were kind and sweet), "tell me, Nelly, do you 
like Mr. Bold — much?” 

She was quite taken aback by the question. I will 
not say that she had forgotten herself, and her own 
love in thinking about John Bold, and while conversing 
with Mary. She certainly had not done so. She had 
been sick at heart to think, that a man of whom she 
could not but own to herself that she loved him, of 
whose regard she had been so proud, that such a man 
should turn against her father to ruin him. She had 
felt her vanity hurt that his affection for her had not 
kept him from such a course. Had he really cared 
for her, he would not have risked her love by such an 
outrage. But her main fear had been for her father, 
and when she spoke of danger, it was of danger to 
him and not to herself. 

She was taken aback by the question altogether: 
" Do I like him, papa? ” 

"Yes, Nelly, do you like him? Why should n’t you 
like him? But that ’s a poor word. Do you love 
him? ” She sat still in his arms without answering him. 
She certainly had not prepared herself for an avowal 
of affection, intending, as she had done, to abuse John 
Bold herself, and to hear her father do so also. " Come, 
my love,” said he, " let us make a clean breast of it. 
Do you tell me what concerns yourself, and I will tell 
you what concerns me and the hospital.” 

And then, without waiting for an answer, he de- 


THE warden’s tea PARTY. 


79 


scribed to her, as he best could, the accusation that 
was made about Hiram’s will; the claims which the 
old men put forward ; what he considered the strength 
and what the weakness of his own position ; the course 
which Bold had taken, and that which he presumed 
he was about to take ; and then by degrees, without 
further question, he presumed on the fact of Eleanor’s 
love, and spoke of that love as a feeling which he 
could in no way disapprove. He apologised for Bold, 
excused what he was doing ; nay, praised him for his 
energy and intentions ; made much of his good quali- 
ties, and harped on none of his foibles ; then, remind- 
ing his daughter how late it was, and comforting her 
with much assurance which he hardly felt himself, he 
sent her to her room, with flowing eyes and a full 
heart. 

When Mr. Harding met his daughter at breakfast 
the next morning, there was no further discussion on 
the matter, nor was the subject mentioned between 
them for some days. Soon after the party Mary Bold 
called at the hospital, but there were various persons 
in the drawing-room at the time, and she therefore 
said nothing about her brother. On the day following, 
John Bold met Miss Harding in one of the quiet, som- 
bre, shaded walks of the close. He was most anxious 
to see her, but unwilling to call at the warden’s house, 
and had in truth waylaid her in her private haunts. 

“ My sister tells me,” said he, abruptly hurrying on 
with his premeditated speech, “ my sister tells me that 
you had a delightful party the other evening. I was 
so sorry I could not be there.” 

“We were all sorry,” said Eleanor, with dignified 
composure. 


8o 


THE WARDEN. 


“ I believe, Miss Harding, you understood why, at 

this moment ” And Bold hesitated, muttered, 

stopped, commenced his explanation again, and again 
broke down. Eleanor would not help him in the least. 

I think my sister explained to you, Miss Harding? ” 
“ Pray don’t apologise, Mr. Bold ; my father will, I 
am sure, always be glad to see you, if you like to come 
to the house now as formerly ; nothing has occurred 
to alter his feelings. Of your own views you are, of 
course, the best judge.” 

“Your father is all that is kind and generous; he 

always was so ; but’ you. Miss Harding, yourself 

I hope you will not judge me harshly, because ” 

“ Mr. Bold,” said she, “ you may be sure of one 
thing ; I shall always judge my father to be right, and 
those who oppose him I shall judge to be wrong. If 
those who do not know him oppose him, I shall have 
charity enough to believe that they are wrong through 
error of judgment ; but should I see him attacked by 
those who ought to know him, and to love him, and 
revere him, of such I shall be constrained to form a 
different opinion.” And then curtseying low she sailed 
on, leaving her lover in anything but a happy state of 
mind. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE JUPITER. 

Though Eleanor Harding rode off from John Bold 
on a high horse, it must not be supposed that her heart 
was so elate as her demeanour. In the first place, she 
had a natural repugnance to losing her lover ; and in 
the next, she was not quite so sure that she was so cer- 
tainly in the right as she pretended to be. Her father 
had told her, and that now repeatedly, that Bold was 
doing nothing unjust or ungenerous; and why then 
should she rebuke him, and throw him off, when she 
felt herself so ill able to bear his loss? But such is 
human nature, and young-lady-nature especially. As 
she walked off from him beneath the shady elms of the 
close, her look, her tone, every motion and gesture of 
her body, belied her heart ; she would have given the 
world to have taken him by the hand, to have reasoned 
with him, persuaded him, cajoled him, coaxed him out 
of his project ; to have overcome him with all her fe- 
male artillery, and to have redeemed her father at the 
cost of herself ; but pride would not let her do this, 
and she left him without a look of love or a word of 
kindness. 

Had Bold been judging of another lover and of 
another lady, he might have understood all this as well 
as we do ; but in matters of love men do not see 
6 


82 


THE WARDEN. 


clearly in their own affairs. They say that faint heart 
never won fair lady. It is amazing to me how fair 
ladies are won, so faint are often men’s hearts! Were 
it not for the kindness of their nature, that seeing the 
weakness of our comage they will occasionally de- 
scend from their impregnable fortresses, and themselves 
aid us in effecting their own defeat, too often would 
they escape unconquered if not unscathed, and free of 
body if not of heart. 

Poor Bold crept off quite crestfallen. He felt that 
as regarded Eleanor Harding his fate was sealed, un- 
less he could consent to give up a task .to which he 
had pledged himself, and which . indeed it would not 
be easy for him to give up. Lawyers were engaged, 
and the question had to a certain extent been taken 
up by the public. Besides, how could a high-spirited 
girl like Eleanor Harding really learn to love a man 
for neglecting a duty which he had assumed! Could 
she allow her affection to be purchased at the cost of 
his own self-respect? 

As regarded the issue of his attempt at reformation 
in the hospital. Bold had no reason hitherto to be dis- 
contented with his success. All Barchester was by the 
ears about it. The bishop, the archdeacon, the warden, 
the steward, and several other clerical allies, had daily 
meetings, discussing their tactics, and preparing for 
the great attack. Sir Abraham Haphazard had been 
consulted, but his opinion was not yet received. Copies 
of Hiram’s will, copies of wardens’ journals, copies of 
leases, copies of accounts, copies of everything that 
could be copied, and of some that could not, had been 
sent to him ; and the case was assuming most credita- 
ble dimensions. But above all, it had been mentioned 


THE JUPITER. 


83 


in the daily Jupiter. That all-powerful organ of the 
press in one of its leading thunderbolts launched at St. 
Cross had thus remarked : ‘ Another case, of smaller 
'dimensions indeed, but of similar import, is now likely 
'to come under public notice. We are informed that 
' the warden or master of an old alms-house attached 
'to Barchester Cathedral is in receipt of twenty-five 
‘ times the annual income appointed for him by the 
' will of the founder, while the sum yearly expended 
' on the absolute purposes of the charity has always 
' remained fixed. In other words, the legatees undei 
' the founder’s .will have received no advantage from 
'the increase in the value of the property during the 
' last four centuries, such increase having been absorbed 
' by the so-called warden. It is impossible to conceive 
' a case of greater injustice. It is no answer to say 
'that some six or nine or twelve old men receive as 
' much of the goods of this world as such old men re- 
'quire. On what foundation, moral or divine, tra- 
' ditional or legal, is grounded the warden’s claim to 
' the large income he receives for doing nothing? The 
'contentment of these almsmen, if content they be, 
'can give him no title to this wealth! Does he ever 
'ask himself, when he stretches wide his clerical palm 
'to receive the pay of some dozen of the working 
'clergy, for what service he is so remunerated? Does 
' his conscience ever entertain the question of his right 
'to such subsidies? Or is it possible that the subject 
' never so presents itself to his mind ; that he has re- 
' ceived for many years, and intends, should God spare 
' him, to receive for years to come, these fruits of the 
' industrious piety of past ages, indifferent as to any 
'right on his own part, or of any injustice to others) 


84 


THE WARDEN, 


‘ We must express an opinion that nowhere but in the 
‘ Church of England, and only there among its priests, 

‘ could such a state of moral indifference be found/ 

I must for the present leave my readers to imagine 
the state of Mr. Harding’s mind after reading the above 
article. They say that eighty thousand copies of the 
Jupiter are daily sold, and that each copy is read by 
five persons at the least. Four hundred thousand 
readers then would hear this accusation against him; 
four hundred thousand hearts would swell with indig- 
nation at the griping injustice, the barefaced robbery 
of the warden of Barchester HospitM! And how was 
he to answer this? How was he to open his inmost 
heart to this multitude, to these thousands, the edu- 
cated, the polished, the picked men of his own country ; 
how show them that he was no robber, no avaricious, 
lazy priest scrambling for gold,' but a retiring humble- 
spirited man, who had innocently taken what had in- 
nocently been offered to him? 

‘‘Write to the Jupiter,” suggested the bishop. 

“Yes,” said the archdeacon, more worldly wise than 
his father ; “ yes, and be smothered with ridicule ; 
tossed over and over again with scorn ; shaken this 
way and that, as a rat in the mouth of a practised 
terrier. You will leave out some word or letter in your 
answer, and the ignorance of the cathedral clergy will 
be harped upon ; you will make some small mistake, 
which will be a falsehood, or some admission, which 
will be self-condemnation ; you will find yourself to 
have been vulgar, ill-tempered, irreverend, and illiter- 
ate, and the chances are ten to one but that being a 
clergyman you will have been guilty of blasphemy ! A 
man may have the best of causes, the best of talents. 


THE JUPITER. 


85 


and the best of tempers ; he may write as well as Ad- 
dison, or as strongly as Junius; but even with all this 
he cannot successfully answer when attacked by the 
Jupiter. In such matters it is omnipotent. What the 
Czar is in Russia, or the mob in America, that the 
Jupiter is in England. Answer such an article! No, 
warden ; whatever you do, don’t do that. We were to 
look for this sort of thing, you know ; but we need not 
draw down on our heads more of it than is necessary.” 

The article in the Jupiter, while it so greatly harassed 
our poor warden, was an immense triumph to some 
of the opposite party. Sorry as Bold was to see Mr. 
Harding attacked so personally, it still gave him a 
feeling of elation to find his cause taken up by so 
powerful an advocate. And as to Finney, the attorney, 
he was beside himself. What! to be engaged in the 
isame cause and on the same side with the Jupiter ; to 
have the views he had recommended seconded, and 
furthered, and battled for by the Jupiter! Perhaps to 
have his own name mentioned as that of the learned 
gentleman whose efforts had been so successful on be- 
half of the poor of Barchester! He might be exam- 
ined before committees of the House of Commons, 
with heaven knows how much a day for his personal 
expenses ; — he might be engaged for years on such a 
suit ! There was no end to the glorious golden dreams 
which this leader in the Jupiter produced in the soaring 
mind of Finney. 

And the old bedesmen ; — they also heard of this 
article, and had a glimmering, indistinct idea of the 
marvellous advocate which had now taken up their 
cause. Abel Handy limped hither and thither through 
the rooms, repeating all that he understood to have 


86 


THE WARDEN. 


been printed, with some additions of his own which he 
thought should have been added. He told them how 
the Jupiter had declared that their warden was no bet- 
ter than a robber, and that what the Jupiter said was 
acknowledged by the world to be true. How the 
Jupiter had affirmed that each one of them — “each 
one of us, Jonathan Crumple, think of that!” — had a 
clear right to a hundred a year ; and that if the Jupiter 
had said so, it was better than a decision of the Lord 
Chancellor. And then he carried about the paper, sup- 
plied by Mr. Finney, which, though none of them 
could read it, still afforded in its very touch and as- 
pect positive corroboration of what was told them; 
and Jonathan Crumple pondered deeply over his re- 
turning wealth ; and Job Skulpit saw how right he had 
been in signing the petition, and said so many scores 
of times ; and Spriggs leered fearfully with his one eye ; 
and Moody, as he more nearly approached the coming 
golden age, hated more deeply than ever those who 
still kept possession of what he so coveted. Even Billy 
Gazy and poor bed-ridden Bell became active and un- 
easy. But the great Bunce stood apart with lowering 
brow, with deep grief seated in his heart, for he per- 
ceived that evil days were coming. 

It had been decided, the archdeacon advising, that 
no remonstrance, explanation, or defence should be ad- 
dressed from the Barchester conclave to the Editor of 
the Jupiter; but hitherto that was the only decision to 
which they had come. 

Sir Abraham Haphazard was deeply engaged in pre- 
paring a bill for the mortification of papists, to be 
called the “ Convent Custody Bill,” the purport of 
which was to enable any Protestant clergyman over 


THE JUPITER. 


87 


fifty years of age to search any nun whom he suspected 
of being in possession of treasonable papers, or Jesuit- 
ical symbols ; and as there were to be a hundred and 
thirty-seven clauses in the bill, each clause containing 
a separate thorn for the side of the papist, and as it 
was known the bill would be fought inch by inch, by 
fifty maddened Irishmen, the due construction and ad- 
equate dovetailing of it did consume much of Sir Abra- 
ham’s time. The bill had all its desired effect. Of 
course it never passed into law; but it so completely 
divided the ranks of the Irish members, who had 
bound themselves together to force on the ministry a 
bill for compelling all men to drink Irish whiskey, and 
all women to wear Irish poplins, that for the remainder 
of the session the Great Poplin and Whiskey League 
was utterly harmless. 

Thus it happened that Sir Abraham’s opinion was 
not at once forthcoming, and the uncertainty, the ex- 
pectation, and suffering of the folk of Barchester was 
maintained at a high pitch. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 

The reader must now be requested to visit the rec- 
tory of Plumstead Episcopi ; and as it is as yet still 
early morning, to ascend again with us into the bed- 
room of the archdeacon. The mistress of the mansion 
was at her toilet ; on which we will not dwell with 
profane eyes, but proceed into a small inner room, 
where the doctor dressed and kept his boots and ser- 
mons ; and here we will take our stand, premising that 
the door of the room was so open as to admit of a con- 
versation between our reverend Adam and his valued 
Eve. 

It ’s all your own fault, archdeacon,” said the latter. 
“ I told you from the beginning how it would end, and 
papa has no one to thank but you.” 

“ Good gracious, my dear,” said the doctor, appear- 
ing at the door of his dressing-room, with his face and 
head enveloped in the rough towel which he was vio- 
lently using ; “ how can you say so ? I am doing my 
very best.” 

“ I wish you had never done so much,” said the lady, 
interrupting him. “ If you ’d just have let John Bold 
come and go there, as he and papa liked, he and 
Eleanor would have been married by this time, and we 
should not have heard one word about all this affair.” 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 


89 


** But, my dear ■” 

Oh, it ’s all very well, archdeacon ; and of course 
you ’re right ; I don’t for a moment think you ’ll ever 
admit that you could be wrong ; but the fact is, you ’ve 
brought this young man down upon papa by huffing 
him as you have done.” 

” But, my love ” 

‘‘And all because you did n’t like John Bold for a 
brother-in-law. How is she ever to do better? Papa 
has n’t got a shilling; and though Eleanor is well 

enough, she has not at all a taking style of beauty. 

I ’m sure I don’t know how she ’s to do better than 
marry John Bold ; or as well indeed,” added the anx- 
ious sister, giving the last twist to her last shoe-string. 

Dr. Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack ; 
but what could he say? He certainly had huffed John 
Bold ; he certainly had objected to him as a brother-in- 
law, and a very few months ago the very idea had ex- 
cited his wrath. But now matters were changed ; John 
Bold had shown his power, and, though he was as 
odious as ever to the archdeacon, power is always re- 
spected, and the reverend dignitary began to think that 
such an alliance might not have been imprudent. 
Nevertheless, his motto was still “no surrender”; he 
would still fight it out ; he believed-confidently in Ox- 
ford, in the bench of bishops, in Sir Abraham Hap- 
hazard, and in himself ; and it was only when alone 
with his wife that doubts of defeat ever beset him. 
He once more tried to communicate this confidence to 
Mrs. Grantly, and for the twentieth time began to tell 
her of Sir Abraham. 

“ Oh, Sir Abraham ! ” said she, collecting all her 
house keys into her basket before she descended ; “ Sir 


90 


THE WARDEN. 


Abraham won’t get Eleanor a husband ; Sir Abraham 
won’t get papa another income when he has been wor- 
reted out of the hospital. Mark what I tell you, arch- 
deacon. While you and Sir Abraham are fighting, 
papa will lose his preferment ; and what will you do 
then with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, 
who ’s to pay Sir Abraham? I suppose he won’t take 
the case up for nothing? ” And so the lady descended 
to family worship among her children and servants, 
the pattern of a good and prudent wife. 

Dr. Grantly was blessed with a happy, thriving 
family. There were, first, three boys, now at home 
from school for the holidays. They were called, re- 
spectively, Charles James, Henry, and Samuel. The 
two younger, — there were five in all, — were girls ; the 
elder, Florinda, bore the name of the Archbishop of 
York’s wife, whose godchild she was : and the younger 
had been christened Grizzel, after a sister of the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury. The boys were all clever, and 
gave good promise of being well able to meet the cares 
and trials of the world ; and yet they were not alike in 
their dispositions, and each had his individual charac- 
ter, and each his separate admirers among the doctor’s 
friends. 

Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he 
never committed himself ; he well knew how much 
was expected from the eldest son of the Archdeacon 
of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix 
too freely with other boys. He had not the great tal- 
ents of his younger brothers, but he exceeded them in 
judgment and propriety of demeanour ; his fault, if 
he had one, was an over-attention to words instead of 
things; there was a thought too much finesse about 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 


91 


him, and, as even his father sometimes told him, he 
was too fond of a compromise. 

The second was the archdeacon’s favourite son, and 
Henry was indeed a brilliant boy. The versatility of 
his genius was surprising, and the visitors at Plum- 
stead Episcopi were often amazed at the marvellous 
manner in which he would, when called on, adapt his 
capacity to apparently most uncongenial pursuits. He 
appeared once before a large circle as Luther the re- 
former, and delighted them with the perfect manner 
in which he assumed the character ; and within three 
days he again astonished them by acting the part of a 
Capuchin friar to the very life. For this last exploit 
his father gave him a golden guinea, and his brothers 
said the reward had been promised beforehand in the 
event of the performance being successful. He was 
also sent on a tour into Devonshire ; a treat which the 
lad was most anxious of enjoying. His father’s friends 
there, however, did not appreciate his talents, and sad 
accounts were sent home of the perversity of his nature. 
He was a most courageous lad, game to the backbone. 

It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, 
and within some miles of Barchester Cathedral, and 
also at Westminster, where he was at school, that young 
Henry could box well and would never own himself 
beat ; other boys would fight while they had a leg to 
stand on, but he would fight with no leg at all. Those 
backing him would sometimes think him crushed by 
the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood, and 
his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from the 
contest ; but no ; Henry never gave in, was never 
weary of the battle. The ring was the only element 
in which he seemed to enjoy himself ; and while other 


92 


THE WARDEN. 


boys were happy in the number of their friends, he re- 
joiced most in the multitude of his foes. 

His relations could not but admire his pluck, but 
they sometimes were forced to regret that he was in- 
clined to be a bully ; and those not so partial to him 
as his father was, observed with pain that, though he 
could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon’s friends, 
he was imperious and masterful to the servants and the 
poor. 

But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite ; and 
dear little Soapy, as he was familiarly called, was as 
engaging a child as ever fond mother petted. He was 
soft and gentle in his manners, and attractive in his 
speech ; the tone of his voice was melody, and every 
action was a grace ; unlike his brothers, he was cour- 
teous to all, he was affable to the lowly, and meek 
even to the very scullery maid. He was a boy of great 
promise, minding his books and delighting the hearts 
of his masters. His brothers, however, were not par- 
ticularly fond of him ; they would complain to their 
mother that Soapy’s civility all meant something ; they 
thought that his voice was too often listened to at 
Plumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he 
grew up, he would have more weight in the house than 
either of them. There was, therefore, a sort of agree- 
ment among them to put young Soapy down. This, 
however, was not so easy to be done ; Samuel, though 
young, was sharp ; he could not assume the stiff de- 
corum of Charles James, nor could he fight like Henry ; 
but he was a perfect master of his own weapons, and 
contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the 
place which he had assumed. Henry declared that he 
was a false, cunning creature; and Charles James, 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 


93 


though he always spoke of him as his dear brother 
Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when 
opportunity offered. To speak the truth, Samuel was 
a cunning boy, and those even who loved him best 
could not but own that for one so young, he was too 
adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in modu- 
lating his voice. 

The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice 
little girls enough, but they did not possess the sterling 
qualities of their brothers ; their voices were not often 
heard at Plumstead Episcopi ; they were bashful and 
timid by nature, slow to speak before company even 
when asked to do so ; and though they looked very 
nice in their clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, 
they were but little noticed by the archdeacon’s visitors. 

Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared 
in the gait and visage of the archdeacon during his 
colloquy with his wife in the sanctum of their dressing- 
rooms, was dispelled as he entered his breakfast-parlour 
with erect head and powerful step. In the presence 
of a third person he assumed the lord and master; 
and that wise and talented lady too well knew the man 
to whom her lot for life was bound, to stretch her au- 
thority beyond the point at which it would be borne. 
Strangers at Plumstead Episcopf, when they saw the 
imperious brow with which he commanded silence from 
the large circle of visitors, children, and servants who 
came together in the morning to hear him read the 
word of God, and watched how meekly that wife 
seated herself behind her basket of keys with a little 
girl on each side, as she caught that commanding 
glance ; strangers, I say, seeing this, could little guess 
that some fifteen minutes since she had stoutly held her 


94 


THE WARDEN. 


ground against him, hardly allowing him to open his 
mouth in his own defence. But such is the tact and 
talent of women ! 

And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast- 
parlour at Plumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable 
air of all the belongings of the rectory. Comfortable 
they certainly were, but neither gorgeous nor even 
grand ; indeed, considering the money that had been 
spent there, the eye and taste might have been better 
served ; there was an air of heaviness about the rooms 
which might have been avoided without any sacrifice 
to propriety ; colours might have been better chosen 
and lights more perfectly diffused ; but perhaps in do- 
ing so the thorough clerical aspect of the whole might 
have been somewhat marred. At any rate, it was not 
without ample consideration that those thick, dark, 
costly carpets were put down; those embossed but 
sombre papers hung up ; those heavy curtains draped 
so as to half-exclude the light of the sun. Nor were 
these old-fashioned chairs, bought at a price far exceed- 
ing that now given for more modem goods, without 
a purpose. The breakfast-service on the table was 
equally costly and equally plain. The apparent object 
had been to spend money without obtaining brilliancy 
or splendour. The um was of thick and solid silver, 
as were also the tea-pot, coffee-pot, cream -ewer, and 
sugar-bowl ; the cups were old, dim dragon china, 
worth about a pound a piece, but very despicable in 
the eyes of the uninitiated. The silver forks were so 
heavy as to be disagreeable to the hand, and the bread- 
basket was of a weight really formidable to any but 
robust persons. The tea consumed was the very best, 
the coffee the very blackest, the cream the very thick- 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 


95 


est ; there was dry toast and buttered toast, muffins 
and crumpets ; hot bread and cold bread, white bread 
and brown bread, home-made bread and bakers’ bread, 
wheaten bread and oaten bread ; and if there be other 
breads than these they were there ; there were eggs in 
napkins, and crispy bits of bacon under silver covers ; 
and there were little fishes in a little box, and devilled 
kidneys frizzling on a hot-water dish ; — which, by-the- 
bye, were placed closely contiguous to the plate of the 
worthy archdeacon himself. Over and above this, on 
a snow-white napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was 
a huge ham and a huge sirloin ; the latter having laden 
the dinner table on the previous evening. Such was 
the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi. 

And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant 
house. The fact that man shall not live by bread 
alone seemed to be somewhat forgotten ; and noble as 
was the appearance of the host, and sweet and good- 
natured as was the face of the hostess, talented as were 
the children, and excellent as were the viands and the 
wines, in spite of these attractions, I generally found 
the rectory somewhat dull. After breakfast the arch- 
deacon would retire, — of course to his clerical pursuits. 
Mrs. Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen, though 
she had a first-rate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a 
year; and attended to the lessons of Florinda and 
Grizzel, though she had an excellent governess with 
thirty pounds a year. At any rate she disappeared : 
and I never could make companions of the boys. 
Charles James, though he always looked as though 
there was something in him, never seemed to have 
much to say ; and what he did say he would always 
unsay the next minute. He told me once, that he con- 


96 


THE WARDEN. 


sidered cricket, on the whole, to be a gentleman-like 
game for boys, provided they would play without run- 
ning about ; and that fives, also, was a seemly game, 
so that those who played it never heated themselves. 
Henry once quarrelled with me for taking his sister 
Grizzel’s part in a contest between them as to the best 
mode of using a watering-pot for the garden flowers ; 
and from that day to this he has not spoken to me, 
though he speaks at me often enough. For half an 
hour or so I certainly did like Sammy’s gentle speeches ; 
but one gets tired of honey, and I found that he pre- 
ferred the more admiring listeners whom he met in the 
kitchen-garden and back precincts of the establishment. 
Besides, I think I once caught Sammy fibbing. 

On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull 
house, though it must be admitted that everything there 
was of the very best. 

After breakfast, on the morning of which we are 
writing, the archdeacon, as usual, retired to his study, 
intimating that he was going to be very busy, but that 
he would see Mr. Chadwick if he called. On entering 
this sacred room he carefully opened the paper case 
on which he was wont to compose his favourite ser- 
mons, and spread on it a fair sheet of paper and one 
partly written on ; he then placed his inkstand, looked 
at his pen, and folded his blotting paper ; having done 
so, he got up again from his seat, stood with his back 
to the fireplace, and yawned comfortably, stretching 
out vastly his huge arms, and opening his burly chest. 
He then walked across the room and locked the door ; 
and having so prepared himself, he threw himself into 
his easy- chair, took from a secret drawer beneath his 
table a volume of Rabelais, and began to amuse him- 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 97 

self with the witty mischief of Panurge. So passed the 
archdeacon’s morning on that day. 

He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour 
or two, when a knock came to the door, and Mr. 
Chadwick was announced. Rabelais retired into the 
secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed knowingly to be- 
take itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly undid 
his bolt, he was discovered by the steward working, as 
usual, for that church of which he was so useful a pillar. 
Mr. Chadwick had just come from London, and was, 
therefore, known to be the bearer of important news. 

“ We ’ve got Sir Abraham’s opinion at last,” said 
Mr. Chadwick, as he seated himself. 

“ Well ; well ; well! ” exclaimed the archdeacon im- 
patiently. 

Oh, it ’s as long as my arm,” said the other ; “ it 
can’t be told in a word, but you can read it and he 
handed him a copy, in heaven knows how many spun- 
out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-general 
had managed to cram on the back and sides, of the 
case as originally submitted to him. 

“ The upshot is,” said Chadwick, “ that there ’s a 
screw loose in their case, and we had better do noth- 
ing. They are proceeding against Mr. Harding and 
myself, and Sir Abraham holds that; under the wording 
of the will, and subsequent arrangements legally sanc- 
tioned, Mr. Harding and I are only paid servants. The 
defendants should have been either the Corporation of 
Barchester, or possibly the chapter, or your father.” 

“ W — hoo,” said the archdeacon ; “ so Master Bold 
is on a wrong scent, is he ? ” 

‘'That ’s Sir Abraham’s opinion; but any scent 
almost would be a wrong scent. Sir Abraham thinks 
7 


98 


THE WARDEN. 


that if they ’d taken the corporation, or the chapter, we 
could have baffled them. The bishop, he thinks, 
would be the surest shot; but even there we could 
plead that the bishop is only visitor, and that he has 
never made himself a consenting party to the perform- 
ance of other duties.” 

“ That ’s quite clear,” said the archdeacon. 

“ Not quite so clear,” said the other. “You see the 
will says, ^ My lord, the bishop, being graciously pleased 
to see that due justice be done.’ Now, it may be a 
question whether, in accepting and administering the 
patronage, your father has not accepted also the other 
duties assigned. It is doubtful, however; but even 
if they hit that nail, — and they are far off from that 
yet, — the point is so nice, as Sir Abraham says, that 
you would force them into fifteen thousand pounds’ 
cost before they could bring it to an issue! And 
where ’s that sum of money to come from ? ” 

The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight. 
He had never doubted the justice of his case, but he 
had begun to have some dread of unjust success on 
the part of his enemies. It was delightful to him thus 
to hear that their cause was surrounded with such 
rocks and shoals ; — such causes of shipwreck unseen 
by the landsman’s eye, but visible enough to the keen 
eyes of practical law mariners. How wrong his wife 
was to wish that Bold should marry Eleanor! Bold! 
Why, if he should be ass enough to persevere, he would 
be a beggar before he knew whom he was at law with ! 

“ That ’s excellent, Chadwick ; — that ’s excellent! I 
told you Sir Abraham was the man for us;” and he 
put down on the table the copy of the opinion, and 
patted it fondly. 


f 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 


99 


“Don’t you let that be seen though, archdeacon.” 

“Who?— I! — Not for worlds,” said the doctor. 

“ People will talk, you know, archdeacon.” 

“ Of course, of course,” said the doctor. 

“ Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them 
how to fight their own battle.” 

“ Quite true,” said the doctor. 

“No one here in Barchester ought to see that but 
you and I, archdeacon.” 

“No, no, certainly no one else,” said the arch- 
deacon, pleased with the closeness of the confidence ; 
“no one else shall.” 

“Mrs. Grantly is very interested in the matter, I 
know,” said Mr. Chadwick. 

Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not? I am in- 
clined to think he did not qpite wink ; but that with- 
out such, perhaps, unseemly gesture he communicated 
to Mr. Chadwick, with the corner of his eye, intimation 
that, deep as was Mrs. Grantly’s interest in the matter, 
it should not procure for her a perusal of that docu- 
ment; and at the same time he partly opened the 
small drawer, above spoken of, deposited the paper 
on the volume of Rabelais, and showed to Mr. Chad- 
wick the nature of the key which guarded these hidden 
treasures. The careful steward then expressed himself 
contented. Ah! vain man! He could fasten up his 
Rabelais, and other things secret, with all the skill of 
Bramah or of Chubb ; but where could he fasten up 
the key which solved these mechanical mysteries? It 
is probable to us that the contents of no drawer in that 
house were unknown to its mistress, and we think, 
moreover, that she was entitled to all such knowledge. 

“ But,” said Mr. Chadwick, “ we must, of course, tell 

t.ofC. 


100 


THE WARDEN. 


your father and Mr. Harding so much of Sir Abra- 
ham’s opinion as will satisfy them that the matter is 
doing well.” 

“ Oh, certainly, — yes, of course,” said the doctor. 

“ You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is 
of opinion that there is no case at any rate against 
Mr. Harding; and that as the action is worded at 
present, it must fall to the ground ; they must be non- 
suited if they carry it on ; you had better tell Mr. 
Harding, that Sir Abraham is clearly of opinion that 
he is only a servant, and as such, not liable. Or if you 
like it, I ’ll see Mr. Harding myself.” 

“ Oh, I must see him to-morrow, and my father too, 
and I ’ll explain to them exactly so much. You won’t 
go before lunch, Mr. Chadwick. Well, if you will, you 
must, for I know your tinie is precious and he shook 
hands with the diocesan steward, and bowed him out. 

The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and 
twice read through the essence of Sir Abraham Hap- 
hazard’s law-enlightened and law-bewildered brains. 
It was very clear that to Sir Abraham, the justice of 
the old men’s claim or the justice of Mr. Harding’s 
defence were ideas that had never presented them- 
selves. A legal victory over an opposing party was 
the service for which Sir Abraham was, as he imag- 
ined, to be paid ; and that he, according to his lights, 
had diligently laboured to achieve, and with prob- 
able hope of success. Of the intense desire which 
Mr. Harding felt to be assured on fit authority, that 
he was wronging no man, that he was entitled in true 
equity to his income, that he might sleep at night with- 
out pangs of conscience, that he was no robber, no 
spoiler of the poor ; that he and all the world might be 


PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI. 


lOI 


Openly convinced that he was not the man which the 
Jupiter had described him to be ; — of such longings on 
the part of Mr. Harding, Sir Abraham was entirely ig- 
norant; nor, indeed, could it be looked on as part of 
his business to gratify such desires. Such was not the 
system on which his battles were fought, and victories 
gained. Success was his object, and he was generally 
successful. He conquered his enemies by their weak- 
ness rather than by his own strength, and it had been 
found almost impossible to make up a case, in which 
Sir Abraham, as an antagonist, would not find a flaw. 

The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of 
the reasoning. To do him justice, it was not a selfish 
triumph that he desired; he would personally lose 
nothing by defeat, or at least what he might lose did 
not actuate him. But neither was it love of justice 
which made him so anxious, nor even mainly solicitude 
for his father-in-law. He was fighting a part of a 
never-ending battle against a never-conquered foe, — 
that of the church against its enemies. 

He knew Mr. Harding could not pay all the expense 
of these doings, — for these long opinions of Sir Abra- 
ham’s, these causes to be pleaded, these speeches to 
be made, these various courts through which the case 
was, he presumed, to be dragged. He knew that he 
and his father must at least bear the heavier portion of 
this tremendous cost. But to do the archdeacon jus- 
tice, he did not recoil from this. He was a man fond 
of obtaining money, greedy of a large income, but 
open-handed enough in expending it, and it was a 
triumph to him to foresee the success of this measure, 
although he might be called on to pay so dearly for it 
himself. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE CONFERENCE. 

On the following morning the archdeacon was with 
his father betimes, and a note was sent down to the 
warden begging his attendance at the palace. Dr. 
Grantly, as he cogitated on the matter, leaning back . 
in his brougham as he journeyed into Barchester, felt 
that it would be difficult to communicate his own satis- 
faction either to his father or his father-in-law. He 
wanted success on his own side and discomfiture on that 
of his enemies. The bishop wanted peace on the sub- 
ject ; a settled peace if possible, but peace at any rate 
till the short remainder of his own days had spun it- 
self out. Mr. Harding required, not only success and 
peace, but demanded also that he might stand justified 
before the world. 

The bishop, however, was comparatively easy to 
deal with ; and before the arrival of the other, the 
dutiful son had persuaded his father that all was going 
on well, and then the warden arrived. 

It was Mr. Harding’s wont, whenever he spent a 
morning at the palace, to seat himself immediately at 
the bishop’s elbow, the bishop occupying a huge arm- 
chair fitted up with candlesticks, a reading table, a 
drawer, and other paraphernalia, the position of which 
chair was never moved, summer or winter ; and when, 


THE CONFERENCE. 


103 


as was usual, the archdeacon was there also, he con- 
fronted the two elders, who thus were enabled to fight 
the battle against him together ; — and together submit 
to defeat, for such was their constant fate. 

Our warden now took his accustomed place, having 
greeted his son-in-law as he entered, and then affection- 
ately inquired after his friend’s health. There was a 
gentleness about the bishop to which the soft womanly 
affection of Mr. Harding particularly endeared itself, 
and it was quaint to see how the two mild old priests 
pressed each other’s hands, and smiled and made little 
signs of love. 

“ Sir Abraham’s opinion has come at last,” began the 
archdeacon. Mr. Harding had heard so much, and 
was most anxious to know the result. 

“ It is quite favourable,” said the bishop, pressing 
his friend’s arm. “ I am so glad.” 

Mr. Harding looked at the mighty bearer of the im- 
portant news for confirmation of these glad tidings. 

“Yes,” said the archdeacon; “Sir Abraham has 
given most n^nute attention to the case; indeed, I 
knew he would ; — most minute attention, and his opin- 
ion is, — and as to his opinion on such a subject being 
correct, no one who knows Sir Abraham’s character 
can doubt, — his opinion is, that they have n’t got a leg 
to stand on.” 

“ But as how, archdeacon? ” 

“ Why, in the first place ; but you ’re no lawyer, 

warden, and I doubt you won’t understand it ; the gist 
of the matter is this ; — under Hiram’s will two paid 
guardians have been selected for the hospital ; the law 
will say two paid servants, and you and I won’t quar- 
rel with the name.” 


104 


THE WARDEN. 


“ At any rate I will not if I am one of the servants,” 
said Mr. Harding. A rose, you know .” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the archdeacon, impatient of poetry 
at such a time. “ Well, two paid servants, we 11 
say; one to look after the men and the other to 
look after the money. You and Chadwick are these 
two servants, and whether either of you be paid too 
much, or too little, more or less in fact than the 
founder willed, it ’s as clear as daylight that no one 
can fall foul of either of you for receiving an allotted 
stipend.” 

“That does seem clear,” said the bishop, who had 
winced visibly at the words servants and stipend, 
which, however, appeared to have caused no uneasi- 
ness to the archdeacon. 

“ Quite clear,” said he, “ and very satisfactory. In 
point of fact, it being necessary to select such servants 
for the use of the hospital, the pay to be given to them 
must depend on the rate of pay for such services, ac- 
cording to their market value at the period in question ; 
and those who manage the hospital must be the only 
judges of this.” 

“And who does manage the hospital?” asked the 
warden. 

“ Oh, let them find that out ; that ’s another question ; 
the action is brought against you and Chadwick ; that ’s 
your defence, and a perfect and full defence it is. Now 
that I think very satisfactory.” 

“ Well,” said the bishop, looking inquiringly up into 
his friend’s face, who sat silent awhile, and apparently 
not so well satisfied. 

“And conclusive,” continued the archdeacon; “if 
they press it to a jury, which they won’t do, no twelve 


THE CONFERENCE. 105 

men in England will take five minutes to decide 
against them.” 

“ But according to that,” said Mr. Harding, “ I might 
as well have sixteen hundred a year as eight, if the man- 
agers choose to allot it to me ; and as I am one of the 
managers, if not the chief manager, myself, that can 
hardly be a just arrangement.” 

“ Oh, well ; all that ’s nothing to the question ; the 
question is, whether this intruding fellow, and a lot of 
cheating attorneys and pestilent dissenters, are to inter- 
fere with an arrangement which every one knows is es- 
sentially just and serviceable to the church. Pray don’t 
let us be splitting hairs, and that amongst ourselves, or 
there ’ll never be an end of the cause or the cost.” 

Mr. Harding again sat silent for a while, during which 
the bishop once and again pressed his arm, and looked 
in his face to see if he could catch a gleam of a con- 
tented and eased mind ; but there was no such gleam, 
and the poor warden continued playing sad dirges on 
invisible stringed instruments in all manner of positions. 
He was ruminating in his mind on this opinion of Sir 
Abraham, looking to it wearily and earnestly for satis- 
faction, but finding none. At last he said, “ Did you 
see the opinion, archdeacon? ” 

The archdeacon said he had not, — that was to say, 
he had, — that was, he had not seen the opinion itself ; 
he had seen what had been called a copy, but he could 
not say whether of a whole or part ; nor could he say 
that what he had seen were the ipsissima verba of the 
great man himself ; but what he had seen contained 
exactly the decision which he had announced, and 
which he again declared to be to his mind extremely 
satisfactory. 


I06 THE WARPEN. 

1 should like to see the opinion,” said the warden ; 
— ‘‘ that is, a copy of it.” 

“ Well ; I suppose you can if you make a point of 
it ; but I don’t see the use myself. Of course it is es- 
sential that the purport of it should not be known, and 
it is therefore unadvisable to multiply copies.” 

“ Why should it not be known? ” asked the warden. 

What a question for a man to ask ! ” said the arch- 
deacon, throwing up his hands in token of his surprise ; 
“ but it is like you. A child is not more innocent than 
you are in matters of business. Can’t you see that if 
we tell them that no action will Ue against you, but 
that one may possibly lie against some other person or 
persons, that we shall be putting weapons into their 
hands, and be teaching them how to cut our own 
throats? ” 

The warden again sat silent, and the bishop again 
looked at him wistfully. ‘‘The only thing we have 
now to do,” continued the archdeacon, “is to remain 
quiet, hold our peace, and let them play their own game 
as they please.” 

“We are not to make known then,” said the warden, 
“ that we have consulted the attorney-general, and that 
we are advised by him that the founder’s will is fully 
and fairly carried out.” 

“ God bless my soul!” said the archdeacon, “how 
odd it is that you will not see that all we are to do is 
to do nothing. Why should we say anything about 
the founder’s will? We are in possession; and we 
know that they are not in a position to put us out; 
surely that is enough for the present.” 

Mr. Harding rose from his seat and paced thought- 
fully up and down the library, the bishop the while 


THE, CONFERENCE. 


■k>7 

watching him painfully at every turn, and the arch- 
deacon continuing to pour forth his convictions that 
the aifair was in a state to satisfy any prudent mind. 

“ And the Jupiter? ” said the warden, stopping sud- 
denly. 

“ Oh! the Jupiter,” answered the other. “ The Ju- 
piter can break no bones. You must bear with that ; 
there is much of course which it is our bounden duty 
to bear ; it cannot be all roses for us here,” and the 
archdeacon looked exceedingly moral ; “ besides the 
matter is too trivial, of too little general interest to be 
mentioned again in the Jupiter, unless we stir up the 
subject.” And the archdeacon again looked exceed- 
ingly knowing and worldly wise. 

The warden continued his walk ; the hard and sting- 
ing words of that newspaper article, each one of which 
had thrust a thorn as it were into his inmost soul, were 
fresh in his memory ; he had read it more than once, 
word by word, and what was worse, he fancied it was 
as well known to every one as to himself. Was he to 
be looked on as the unjust griping priest he had been 
there described, was he to be pointed at as the con- 
sumer of the bread of the poor, and to be allowed no 
means of refuting such charges, of clearing his be- 
grimed name, of standing innocent in the world, as 
hitherto he had stood? Was he to bear all this, to re- 
ceive as usual his now hated income, and be known as 
one of those greedy priests who by their rapacity have 
brought disgrace on their church? And why? Why 
should he bear all this? Why should he die, for he 
felt that he could not live, under such a weight of ob- 
loquy ? As he paced up and down the room he re- 
solved in his misery and enthusiasm that he could with 


io8 


THE WARDEN. 


pleasure, if he were allowed, give up his place, aban- 
don his pleasant home, leave the hospital, and live 
poorly, happily, and with an unsullied name, on the 
small jemainder of his means. 

He was a man somewhat shy of speaking of himself, 
even before those who knew him best, and whom he 
loved the most ; but at last it burst forth from him, and 
with a somewhat jerking eloquence he declared that he 
could not, would not, bear this misery any longer. 

“ If it can be proved,” said he at last, “ that I have 
a just and honest right to this, as God well knows I 
always deemed I had; — if this salary or stipend be 
really my due, I am not less anxious than another to 
retain it. I have the well-being of my child to look to. 
I am too old to miss without some pain the comforts 
to which I have been used ; and I am, as others are, 
anxious to prove to the world that I have been right, 
and to uphold the place I have held. But I cannot 
do it at such a cost as this. I cannot bear this. Could 
you tell me to do so? ” And he appealed, almost in 
tears, to the bishop, who had left his chair, and was 
now leaning on the warden’s arm as he stood on 
the further side of the table facing the archdeacon. 
“ Could you tell me to sit there at ease, indifferent, and 
satisfied, while such things as these are said loudly of 
me in the world? ” 

The bishop could feel for him and sympathise with 
him, but he could not advise him. He could only say, 
“ No, no, you shall be asked to do nothing that is pain- 
ful ; you shall do just what your heart tells you to be 
right ; you shall do whatever you think best yourself. 
Theophilus, don’t advise him, pray don’t advise the 
warden to do anything which is painful.” 


THE CONFERENCE. 


109 


But the archdeacon, though he could not sympa- 
thise, could advise ; and he saw that the time had 
come when it behoved him to do so in a somewhat 
peremptory manner. 

‘'Why, my lord,” he said, speaking to his father; — 
and when he called his father ‘ my lord ’ the good old 
bishop shook in his shoes, for he knew that an evil 
time was coming. “ Why, my lord, there are two ways 
of giving advice ; there is advice that may be good for 
the present day ; and there is advice that may be good 
for days to come. Now I cannot bring myself to give 
the former, if it be incompatible with the other.” 

“ No ; no ; no ; I suppose not,” said the bishop, re- 
seating himself, and shading his face with his hands. 
Mr. Harding sat down with his back to the further 
wall, playing to himself some air fitted for so calami- 
tous an occasion, and the archdeacon said out his say 
standing, with his back to the empty fireplace. 

“ It is not to be supposed but that much pain will 
spring out of this unnecessarily raised question. We 
must all have foreseen that, and the matter has in no 
wise gone on worse than we expected. But it will be 
weak, yes, and wicked also, to abandon the cause and 
own ourselves wrong, because the inquiry is painful. 
It is not only ourselves we have to look to ; to a cer- 
tain extent the interest of the church is in our keeping. 
Should it be found that one after another of those who 
hold preferment abandoned it whenever it might be 
attacked, is it not plain that such attacks would be re- 
newed till nothing was left us ? and that, if so deserted, 
the Church of England must fall to the ground alto- 
gether? If this be true of many, it is true of one. 
Were you, accused as you now are, to throw up the 


I 10 


THE WARDEN. 


wardenship, and to relinquish the preferment which is 
your property, with the vain object of proving yourself 
disinterested, you would fail in that object, you would 
inflict a desperate blow on your brother clergymen, you 
would encourage every cantankerous dissenter in Eng- 
land to make a similar charge against some source of 
clerical revenue, and you would do your best to dis- 
hearten those who are most anxious to defend you and 
uphold your position. I can fancy nothing more weak, 
or more wrong. It is not that you think that there is 
any justice in these charges, or that you doubt your own 
right to the wardenship. You are convinced of your 
own honesty, and yet would yield to them through 
cowardice.” 

Cowardice ! ” said the bishop, expostulating. Mr. 
Harding sat unmoved, gazing on his son-in-law. 

“Well; would it not be cowardice? would he not 
do so because he is afraid to endure the evil things 
which will be falsely spoken of him? Would that not 
be cowardice? And now let us see the extent of the 
evil which you dread. The Jupiter publishes an article 
which a great many, no doubt, will read ; but of those 
who understand the subject how many will believe the 
Jupiter? Every one knows what its object is. It has 
taken up the case against Lord Guildford and against 
the Dean of Rochester, and that against half a dozen 
bishops ; and does not every one know that it would 
take up any case of the kind, right or wrong, false or 
true, with known justice or known injustice, if by do- 
ing so it could further its own views? Does not all 
the world know this of the Jupiter? Who that really 
knows you will think the worse of you for what the Ju- 
piter says? And why care for those who do not know 


THE CONFERENCE. 


Ill 


you? I will say nothing of your own comfort, but I 
do say that you could not be justified in throwing up, 
in a fit of passion, for such it would be, the only main- 
tenance that Eleanor has. And if you did so, if you 
really did vacate the wardenship, and submit to ruin, 
what would that profit you? If you have no future 
right to the income, you have had no past right to it ; 
and the very fact of your abandoning your position, 
would create a demand for repayment of that which 
you have already received and spent.” 

The poor warden groaned as he sat perfectly still, 
looking up at the hard-hearted orator who thus tor- 
mented him, and the bishop echoed the sound faintly 
from behind his hands. But the archdeacon cared 
little for such signs of weakness, and completed his 
exhortation. 

“ But let us suppose the office to be left vacant, and 
that your own troubles concerning it were over ; would 
that satisfy you? Are your only aspirations in the 
matter confined to yourself and family? I know they 
are not. I know you are as anxious as any of us for 
the church to which we belong. And what a grievous 
blow would such an act of apostasy give her! You 
owe it to the church of which you are a member and 
a minister, to bear with this affliction, however severe 
it may be. You owe it to my father, who instituted 
you, to support his rights. You owe it to those who 
preceded you to assert the legality of their position. 
You owe it to those who are to come after you, to 
maintain uninjured for them that which you received 
uninjured from others. And you owe to us all the 
unflinching assistance of perfect brotherhood in this 
matter, so that upholding one another we may sup- 


112 


THE WARDEN. 


port our great cause without blushing and without dis- 
grace.” 

And so the archdeacon ceased, and stood self-satis- 
fied, watching the effect of his spoken wisdom. 

The warden felt himself, to a certain extent, stifled ; 
he would have given the world to get himself out into 
the open air without speaking to, or noticing those 
who were in the room with him ; but this was impossi- 
ble. He could not leave without saying something, 
and he felt himself confounded by the archdeacon’s 
eloquence. There was a heavy, unfeeling, unanswer- 
able truth in what he had said ; there was so much 
practical, but odious common sense in it, that he 
neither knew how to assent or to differ. If it were 
necessary for him to suffer, he felt that he could endure 
without complaint and without cowardice, providing 
that he was self-satisfied of the justice of his own cause. 
What he could not endure was, that he should be ac- 
cused by others, and not acquitted by himself. Doubt- 
ing, as he had begun to doubt, the justice of his o\vn 
position in the hospital, he knew that his own self-con- 
fidence would not be restored because Mr. Bold had 
been in error as to some legal form ; nor could he be 
satisfied to escape, because, through some legal fiction, 
he who received the greatest benefit from the hospital 
might be considered only as one of its servants. 

The archdeacon’s speech had silenced him, — stu- 
pefied him, — annihilated him ; anything but satisfied 
him. With the bishop it fared not much better. He 
did not discern clearly how things were, but he saw 
enough to know that a battle was to be prepared for ; 
a battle that would destroy his few remaining comforts, 
and bring him with sorrow to the grave. 


THE CONFERENCE. 


113 

The warden still sat, and still looked at the arch- 
deacon, till his thoughts fixed themselves wholly on the 
means of escape from his present position, and he felt 
like a bird fascinated by gazing on a snake. 

“ I hope you agree with me,” said the archdeacon at 
last, breaking the dread silence ; my lord, I hope you 
agree with me.” Oh what a sigh the bishop gave! 
“My lord, I hope you agree with me,^’ again repeated 
the merciless tyrant. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” groaned the poor old man, 
slowly. 

“ And you, warden? ” 

Mr. Harding was now stirred to action. He must 
speak and move, so he got up and took one turn be- 
fore he answered. 

“ Do not press me for an answer just at present ; I 
will do nothing lightly in the matter, and of whatever 
I do I will give you and the bishop notice.” And so 
without another word he took his leave, escaping 
quickly through the palace hall, and down the lofty 
steps ; nor did he breathe freely till he found himself 
alone under the huge elms of the silent close. Here 
he walked long and slowly, thinking on his case with 
a troubled air, and trying in vain to confute the arch- 
deacon’s argument. He then went home, resolved to 
bear it all, — ignominy, suspense, disgrace, self-doubt, 
and heart-burning, — and to do as those would have 
him, who he still believed were most fit and most able 
to counsel him aright. 


8 


CHAPTER X. 


TRIBULATION. 

Mr. Harding was a sadder man than he had ever 
yet been when he returned to his own house. He had 
been wretched enough on that well-remembered morn- 
ing when he was forced to expose before his son-in-law 
the publisher’s account for ushering into the world his 
dear book of sacred music ; when after making such 
payments as he could do unassisted, he found that 
he was a debtor of more than three* hundred pounds ; 
but his sufferings then were as nothing to his present 
misery ; — then he had done wrong, and he knew it, and 
was able to resolve that he would not sin in like man- 
ner again ; but now he could make no resolution, and 
comfort himself by no promises of firmness. He had 
been forced to think that his lot had placed him in a 
false position, and he was about to maintain that po- 
sition against the opinion of the world and against his 
own convictions. 

He had read with pity, amounting almost to horror, 
the strictures which had appeared from time to time 
against the Earl of Guildford as master of St. Cross, 
and the invectives that had been heaped on rich dio- 
cesan dignitaries and overgrown sinecure pluralists. 
In judging of them, he judged leniently ; the old bias 
of his profession had taught him to think that they 


TRIBULATION. 


II5 


were more sinned against than sinning, and that the 
animosity with which they had been pursued was ven- 
omous and unjust ; but he had not the less regarded 
their plight as most miserable. His hair had stood on 
end and his flesh had crept as he read the things which 
had been written ; he had wondered how men could 
live under such a load of disgrace ; how they could 
face their fellow-creatures while their names were ban- 
died about so injuriously and so publicly. Now this 
lot was to be his. He, that shy retiring man, who had 
so comforted himself in the hidden obscurity of his lot, 
who had so enjoyed the unassuming warmth of his own 
little comer, he was now to be dragged forth into the 
glaring day, gibbeted before ferocious multitudes. H e 
entered his own house a crestfallen, humiliated man, 
without a hope of overcoming the wretchedness which 
affected him. 

He wandered into the drawing-room where was his 
daughter ; but he could not speak to her now, so he 
left it, and went into the book-room. He was not 
quick enough to escape Eleanor’s glance, or to prevent 
her from seeing that he was disturbed ; and in a little 
while she followed him. She found him seated in his 
accustomed chair with no book open before him, no 
pen ready in his hand, no ill-shapen notes of blotted 
music lying before him as was usual, none of those 
hospital accounts with which he was so precise and yet 
so unmethodical. He was doing nothing, thinking of 
nothing, looking at nothing ; he was merely suffering. 

“ Leave me, Eleanor, my dear,” he said ; ‘‘ leave me, 
my darling, for a few minutes, for I am busy.” 

Eleanor saw well how it was, but she did leave him, 
and glided silently back to her drawing-room. When 


THE WARDEN. 


1 16 

he had sat awhile, thus alone and unoccupied, he got 
up to walk again ; he could make more of his thoughts 
walking than sitting, and was creeping out into his 
garden, when he met Bunce on the threshold. 

Well, Bunce,” said he, in a tone that for him was 
sharp, “what is it? do you want me? ” 

“ I was only coming to ask after your reverence,” said 
the old bedesman, touching his hat; — “and to inquire 
about the news from London,” he added after a pause. 

The warden winced, and put his hand to his fore- 
head and felt bewildered. 

“Attorney Finney has been there this morning,” 
continued Bunce, “ and by his looks I guess he is not 
so well pleased as he once was, and it has got 'abroad 
somehow that the archdeacon has had down great 
news from London, and Handy and Moody are both 
as black as devils. And I hope,” said the man, trying 
to assume a cheery tone, “ that things are looking up, 
and that there ’ll be an end soon to all this stuff which 
bothers your reverence so sorely.” 

“ Well, I wish there may be, Bunce.” 

“But about the news, your reverence?” said the 
old man, almost whispering. Mr. Harding walked on, 
and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce little 
knew how he was tormenting his patron. “If there 
was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to 
know it,” said he, with at one of affection which the 
warden in all his misery could not resist. 

He stopped, and took both the old man’s hands in 
his. “ My friend,” said he, “ my dear old friend, there 
is nothing ; there is no news to cheer me. God’s will 
be done.” And two small hot tears broke away from 
his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks. 


TRIBULATION. 


II7 

Then God’s will be done,” said the other solemnly ; 
“but they told me that there was good news from 
London, and I came to wish your reverence joy ; but 
God’s will be done.” The warden again walked on, 
and the bedesman looking wistfully after him and re- 
ceiving no encouragement to follow returned sadly to 
his own abode. 

For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in 
the garden, now walking, now standing motionless on 
the turf, and then, as his legs got weary, sitting uncon- 
sciously on the garden seats, and then walking again. 
Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the win- 
dow, watched him through the trees as he came in 
sight, and then again was concealed by the turnings of 
the walk; and thus the time passed away till five, 
when the warden crept back to the house and pre- 
pared for dinner. 

It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlour-maid, 
as she handed the dishes and changed the plates, saw 
that all was not right, and was more demure than ever. 
Neither father nor daughter could eat, and the hateful 
food was soon cleared away, and the bottle of port 
placed upon the table. 

“Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?” said 
Eleanor, thinking that the company of the old man 
might lighten his sorrow. 

“ No, my dear, thank you, not to-day; but are not 
you going out, Eleanor, this lovely afternoon? Don’t 
stay in for me, my dear.” 

“ I thought you seemed so sad, papa.” 

“ Sad,” said he, irritated ; “ well, people must all 
have their share of sadness here ; I am not more ex- 
empt than another. But kiss me, dearest, and go now ; 


THE WARDEN. 


I l8 

I will, if possible, be more sociable when you return.” 

And Eleanor was again banished from her father’s 
sorrow. Ah! her desire now was not to find him 
happy, but to be allowed to share his sorrows ; not to 
force him to be sociable, but to persuade him to be 
trustful. 

She put on her bonnet as desired, and went up to 
Mary Bold; this was her daily haunt, for John Bold 
was up in London among lawyers and church reform- 
ers, diving deep into other questions than that of the 
wardenship of Barchester; supplying information to 
one member of parliament and dining with another ; 
subscribing to funds for the abolition of clerical in- 
comes, and seconding at that great national meeting at 
the Crown and Anchor a resolution to the effect, that 
no clergyman of the Church of England, be he who 
he might, should have more than a thousand a year, 
and none less than two hundred and fifty. His speech 
on this occasion was short, for fifteen had to speak, 
and the room was hired for two hours only, at the ex- 
piration of which the Quakers and Mr. Cobden were 
to make use of it for an appeal to the public in aid of 
the Emperor of Russia ; but it was sharp and effect- 
ive ; at least he was told so by a companion with whom 
he now lived much, and on whom he greatly depended, 
— one Tom Towers, a very leading genius, and sup- 
posed to have high employment on the staff of the 
Jupiter. 

So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary 
Bold, and Mary listened kindly, while the daughter spoke 
much of her father, and, perhaps kinder still, found a 
listener in Eleanor, while she spoke about her brother. 
In the meantime the warden sat alone, leaning on the 


TRIBULATION. 


II9 

arm of his chair ; he had poured out a glass of wine, 
but had done so merely from habit, for he left it un- 
touched ; there he sat gazing at the open window, and 
thinking, if he can be said to have thought, of the hap- 
piness of his past life. All manner of past delights 
came before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed 
without considering them ; his easy days, his absence 
of all kind of hard work, his pleasant shady home, 
those twelve old neighbours whose welfare till now had 
been the source of so much pleasant care, the excel- 
lence of his children, the friendship of the dear old 
bishop, the solemn grandeur of those vaulted aisles, 
through which he loved to hear his own voice pealing ; 
and then that friend of friends, that choice ally that 
had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that 
would always, when asked, discoiurse such pleasant 
music, that violoncello of his ! Ah, how happy he had 
been ! But it was over now ; his easy days and ab- 
sence of work had been the crime which brought on 
him his tribulation ; his shady home was pleasant no 
longer ; may be it was no longer his ; the old neigh- 
bours, whose welfare had been so desired by him, were 
his enemies ; his daughter was as wretched as himself ; 
and even the bishop was made miserable by his posi- 
tion. He could never again lift up his voice boldly as 
he had hitherto done among his brethren, for he felt 
that he was disgraced ; and he feared even to touch 
his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, 
how piteous a lamentation, it would produce. 

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same 
posture, having hardly moved a limb, for two hours, 
when Eleanor came back to tea, and succeeded in 
bringing him with her into the drawing-room. 


120 


THE WARDEN. 


The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though 
the warden, who had hitherto eaten nothing all day, 
devoured the plateful of bread and butter, unconscious 
of what he was doing. 

Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk 
to her, but she hardly knew how to commence. She 
must wait till the urn was gone, till the servant would 
no longer be coming in and out. 

At last everything was quiet, and the drawing-room 
door was permanently closed. Then Eleanor, getting 
up and going round to her father, put her arm round 
his neck, and said, ‘‘ Papa, won’t you tell me what it 
is?” 

'' What what is, my dear? ” 

This new sorrow that torments you ; I know you 
are unhappy, papa.” 

“New sorrow! it ’s no new sorrow, my dear; we 
have all our cares sometimes;” and he tried to smile, 
but it was a ghastly failure ; “ but I should n’t be so 
dull a companion ; come, we ’ll have some music.” 

“ No, papa, not to-night ; it would only trouble you 
to-night ;” and she sat upon his knee, as she sometimes 
would in their gayest moods, and with her arm round 
his neck, she said, “ Papa, I will not leave you till you 
talk to me. Oh, if you only knew how much good it 
would do to you, to tell me of it all.” 

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to 
his heart; but still he said nothing. It was so hard 
to him to speak of his own sorrows ; he was so shy a 
man even with his own child! 

“ Oh, papa, do tell me what it is. I know it is 
about the hospital, and what they are doing up in Lon- 
don, and what that cruel newspaper has said ; but if 


TRIBULATION. 


I2I 


there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowful to- 
gether ; we are all in all to each other now. Dear, 
dear papa, do speak to me.” 

Mr. Harding could not well speak now, for the warm 
tears were running down his cheeks like rain in May, 
but he held his child close to his heart, and squeezed 
her hand as a lover might, and she kissed his forehead 
and his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and com- 
forted him as a woman only can do. 

” My own child,” he said, as soon as his tears would 
let him speak, ‘‘ my own, own child, why should you 
too be unhappy before it is necessary? It may come 
to that, that we must leave this place, but till that time 
comes, why should your young days be clouded? ” 

“ And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave 
it, and have light hearts elsewhere. If that be all, let 
us go. Oh, papa, you and I could be happy if we had 
only bread to eat, so long as our hearts were light.” 

And Eleanor’s face was lighted up with enthusiasm 
as she told her father how he might banish all his care ; 
and a gleam of joy shot across his brow as this idea of 
escape again presented itself, and he again fancied for 
a moment that he could spurn away from him the in- 
come which the world envied him ; that he could give 
the lie to that wielder of the tomahawk who had dared 
to write such things of him in the Jupiter ; that he could 
leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon, and Bold, 
and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, 
and wipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a 
concern. Ah, what happiness might there be in the 
distance, with Eleanor and him in some small cottage, 
and nothing left of their former grandeur but their 
music! Yes, they would walk forth with their music 


I22 


THE WARDEN. 


books, and their instruments, and shaking the dust from 
off their feet as they went, leave the ungrateful place. 
Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm benefice 
more anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of 
his. 

Give it up, papa,*' she said again, jumping from 
his knees and standing on her feet before him, looking 
boldly into his face ; '' give it up, papa.” 

Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of 
joy passed away; how the look of. hope was dispersed 
from that sorrowful face, as the remembrance of the 
archdeacon came back upon our poor warden, and he 
reflected that he could not stir from his now hated post. 
He was as a man bound with iron, fettered with ada- 
mant. He was in no respect a free agent ; he had.no 
choice. Give it up! ” oh if he only could! What an 
easy way that were out of all his troubles! 

“ Papa, don’t doubt about it,” she continued, think- 
ing that his hesitation arose from his unwillingness to 
abandon so comfortable a home ; is it on my account 
that you would stay here? Do you think that I can- 
not be happy without a pony-carriage and a fine draw- 
ing-room? Papa, I never can be happy here, as long 
as there is a question as to your honour in staying here ; 
but I could be gay as the day is long in the smallest 
tiny little cottage, if I could see you come in and go 
out with a light heart. Oh! papa, your face tells so 
much ! Though you won’t speak to me with your voice, 
I know how it is with you every time I look at you.” 

How he pressed her to his heart again with almost 
a spasmodic pressure! How he kissed her as the tears 
fell like rain from his old eyes! How he blessed her, 
and called her by a hundred soft sweet names which 


TRIBULATION. 


123 


now came new to his lips! How he chid himself for 
ever having been unhappy with such a treasure in his 
house, such a jewel on his bosom, with so sweet a 
flower in the choice garden of his heart! And then the 
flood-gates of his tongue were loosed, and, at length, 
with unsparing detail of circumstances, he told her all 
that he wished, and all that he could not do. He re- 
peated those arguments of the archdeacon, not agree- 
ing in their truth, but explaining his inability to escape 
from them ; — how it had been declared to him that he 
was bound to remain where he was by the interests of 
his order, by gratitude to the bishop, by the wishes of 
his friends, by a sense of duty, which, though he could 
not understand it, he was fain to acknowledge. He 
told her how he had been accused of cowardice, and 
though he was not a man to make much of such a 
charge before the world, now in the full candour of his 
heart, he explained to her that such an accusation was 
grievous to him; that he did think it would be un- 
manly to desert his post, merely to escape his pres- 
ent sufferings, and that, therefore, he must bear as best 
he might the misery which was prepared for him. 

And did she find these details tedious? Oh, no; 
she encouraged him to dilate on every feeling he ex- 
pressed, till he laid bare the inmost comers of his heart 
to her. They spoke together of the archdeacon, as 
two children might of a stem, unpopular, but still re- 
spected schoolmaster, and of the bishop as a parent 
kind as kind could be, but powerless against an omnip- 
otent pedagogue. 

And then, when they had discussed all this, when 
the father had told all to the child, she could not be 
less confiding than he had been; and as John Bold’s 


124 


THE WARDEN. 


name was mentioned between them, she owned how 
well she had learned to love him, — '' had loved him 
once,” she said, “ but she would not, could not, do so 
now. No; even had her troth been plighted to him, 
she would have taken it back again; — had she sworn 
to love him as his wife, she would have discarded him, 
and not felt herself forsworn when he proved himself 
the enemy of her father.” 

But the warden declared that Bold was no enemy of 
his, and encouraged her love ; and gently rebuked, as 
he kissed her, the stern resolve she had made to cast 
him off ; and then he spoke to her of happier days 
when their trials would all be over ; and declared that 
her young heart should not be torn asunder to please 
either priest or prelate, dean or archdeacon. No, not 
if all Oxford were to convocate together, and agree as 
to the necessity of the sacrifice! 

And so they greatly comforted each other! In what 
sorrow will not such mutual confidence give consola- 
tion! — and with a last expression of tender love they 
parted, and went comparatively happy to their rooms. 


CHAPTER XL 


IPHIGENIA. 

When Eleanor laid her head on her pillow that night, 
her mind was anxiously intent on some plan by which 
she might extricate her father from his misery ; and, in 
her warm-hearted enthusiasm, self-sacrifice was decided 
on as the means to be adopted. Was not so good an 
Agamemnon worthy of an Iphigenia? She would her- 
self personally implore John Bold to desist from his 
undertaking; she would explain to him her father’s 
sorrows, the cruel misery of his position ; she would 
tell him how her father would die if he were thus 
dragged before the public and exposed to such un- 
merited ignominy ; she would appeal to his old friend- 
ship, to his generosity, to his manliness, to his mercy; 
if need were, she would kneel to him for the favour she 
would ask ; — but before she did this, the idea of love 
must be banished. There must be no bargain in the 
matter. To his mercy, to his generosity, she could ap- 
peal ; but as a pure maiden, hitherto even unsolicited, 
she could not appeal to his love, nor under such cir- 
cumstances could she allow him to do so. Of course 
when so provoked he would declare his passion ; that 
was to be expected ; there had been enough between 
them to make such a fact sure ; but it was equally cer- 
tain that he must be rejected. She could not be un- 


26 


THE WARDEN. 


derstood as saying, Make my father free and I am the 
reward. There would be no sacrifice in that ; — not so 
had Jephthah’s daughter saved her father; — not so 
could she show to that kindest, dearest of parents how 
much she was able to bear for his good. No ; to one 
resolve must her whole soul be bound ; and so resolv- 
ing, she felt that she could make her great request to 
Bold with as much self-assured confidence as she could 
have done to his grandfather. 

And now I own I have fears for my heroine ; not 
as to the upshot of her mission, — not in the least as to 
that ; as to the full success of her generous scheme, 
and the ultimate result of such a project, no one con- 
versant with human nature and novels can have a 
doubt ; but as to the amount of sympathy she may re- 
ceive from those of her own sex. Girls below twenty 
and old ladies above sixty will do her justice ; for in 
the female heart the soft springs of sweet romance re- 
open after many years, and again gush out with waters 
pure as in earlier days, and greatly refresh the path that 
leads downwards to the grave. But I fear that the 
majority of those between these two eras will not ap- 
prove of Eleanor’s plan. I fear that unmarried ladies 
of thirty-five will declare that there can be no probabil- 
ity of so absurd a project being carried through ; that 
young women on their knees before their lovers are 
sm-e to get kissed, and that they would not put them- 
selves in such a position did they not expect it ; that 
Eleanor is gping to Bold, only because circumstances 
prevent Bold from coming to her; — that she is cer- 
tainly a little fool, or a little schemer, but that in all 
probability she is thinking a good deal more about her- 
self than her father. 


IPHIGENIA. 


127 


Dear ladies, you are right as to your appreciation of 
the circumstances, but very wrong as to Miss Harding’s 
character. Miss Harding was much younger than you 
are, and could not, therefore, know, as you may do, to 
what dangers such an encounter might expose her. 
She may get kissed ; I think it very probable that she 
will ; but I give my solemn word and positive assur- 
ance that the remotest idea of such a catastrophe never 
occurred to her as she made the great resolve now 
alluded to. 

And then she slept ; and then she rose refreshed, 
and met her father with her kindest embrace and most 
loving smiles ; and on the whole their breakfast was 
by no means so triste as had been their dinner the day 
before ; and then, making some excuse to her father 
for so soon leaving him, she started on the commence- 
ment of her operations. 

She knew that John Bold was in London, and that, 
therefore, the scene itself could not be enacted to-day ; 
but she also knew that he was soon to be home, proba- 
bly on the next day, and it was necessary that some 
little plan for meeting him should be concerted with 
his sister Mary. When she got up to the house, she 
went as usual into the morning sitting-room, and was 
startled by perceiving, by a stick, a great coat, and 
sundry parcels which were lying about, that Bold must 
already have returned. 

“John has come back so suddenly,” said Mary, 
coming into the room ; “ he has been travelling all 
night.” 

“ Then I ’ll come up again some other time,” said 
Eleanor, about to beat a retreat in her sudden dis- 
may. 


128 


THE WARDEN. 


** He ’s out now, and will be for the next two hours,” 
said the other; ‘'he ’s with that horrid Finney; he 
only came to see him, and he returns by the mail train 
to-night.” 

Returns by the mail train to-night, thought Eleanor 
to herself, as she strove to screw up her courage ; — 
away again to-night ! Then it must be now or never ; 
and she again sat down, having risen to go. 

She wished the ordeal could have been postponed. 
She had fully made up her mind to do the deed, but 
she had not made up her mind to do it this very day ; 
and now she felt ill at ease, astray, and in difficulty. 

“ Mary,” she began, “ I must see yom* brother before 
he goes back.” 

“ Oh yes, of course,” said the other ; “ I know he ’ll 
be delighted to see you ; ” and she tried to treat it as 
a matter of course. But she was not the less sur- 
prised ; for Mary and Eleanor had daily talked over 
John Bold and his conduct, and his love, and Mary 
would insist on calling Eleanor her sister, and would 
scold her for not calling Bold by his Christian name ; 
and Eleanor would half confess her love, but like a 
modest maiden would protest against such familiarities 
even with the name of her lover. And so they talked 
hour after hour, and Mary Bold, who was much the 
elder, looked forward with happy confidence to the 
day when Eleanor would not be ashamed to call her 
her sister. She was, however, fully sure that just at 
present Eleanor would be much more likely to avoid 
her brother than to seek him. 

“ Mary, I must see your brother, now, to-day, and 
beg from him a great favour ; ” and she spoke with a 
solemn air, not at all usual to her ; and then she went 


IPHIGENIA. 


129 


on, and opened to her friend all her plan, her well- 
•weighed scheme for saving her father from a sorrow 
which would, she said, if it lasted, bring him to his 
grave. But Mary,” she continued, “ you must now, 
you know, cease any joking about me and Mr. Bold. 
You must now say no more about that. I am not 
ashamed to beg this favour from your brother, but 
when I have done so, there can never be anything 
further between us ! ” And this she said with a staid 
and solemn air, quite worthy of J ephthah’s daughter or 
of Iphigenia either. 

It was quite clear that Mary Bold did not follow the 
argument. That Eleanor Harding should appeal, on 
behalf of her father, to Bold’s better feelings, seemed 
to Mary quite natural ; it seemed quite natural that he 
should relent, overcome by such filial tears, and by so 
much beauty ; but, to her thinking, it was at any rate 
equally natural that, having relented, John should put 
his arm round his mistress’s waist, and say, ‘ Now 
having settled that, let us be man and wife, and all 
will end happily ! ’ Why his good nature should not 
be rewarded, when such reward would operate to the 
disadvantage of none, Mary, who had more sense 
than romance, could not understand; and she said 
as much. 

Eleanor, however, was firm, and made quite an elo- 
quent speech to support her own view of the question. 
She could not condescend, she said, to ask such a 
favour on any other terms than those proposed. Mary 
might, perhaps, think her high-flown, but she had her 
own ideas, and she could not submit to sacrifice her 
self-respect. 

“ But I am sure you love him ; — don’t you? ” pleaded 


THE WARDEN. 


I3P 

Mary ; “ and I am sure he loves you better than any- 
thing in the world.” 

Eleanor was going to make another speech, but a 
tear came to each eye, and she could not ; so she pre- 
tended to blow her nose, and walked to the window, 
and made a little inward call on her own courage, and 
finding herself somewhat sustained, said sententiously, 
— “ Mary, this is nonsense.” 

“ But you do love him,” said Mary, who had fol- 
lowed her friend to the window, and now spoke with 
her arms close wound round the other’s waist. “ You 
do love him with all your heart. You know you do ; 
I defy you to deny it.” 

“ I — ” commenced Eleanor, turning sharply round 
to refute the charge ; but the intended falsehood stuck 
in her throat, and never came to utterance. She could 
not deny her love, so she took plentifully to tears, and 
leant upon her friend’s bosom and sobbed there, and 
protested that, love or no love, it would make no dif- 
ference in her resolve, and called Mary, a thousand 
times, the most cruel of girls, and swore her to secrecy 
by a hundred oaths, and ended by declaring that the 
girl who could betray her friend’s love, even to a 
brother, would be as black a traitor as a soldier in a 
garrison who should open the city gates to the enemy. 
While they were yet discussing the matter. Bold re- 
turned, and Eleanor was forced into sudden action. 
She had either to accomplish or abandon her plan ; 
and having slipped into her friend’s bedroom, as the 
gentleman closed the hall door, she washed the marks 
of tears from her eyes, and resolved within herself to 
go through with it. “ Tell him I am here,” said she, 
“ and coming in ; and mind, whatever you do, don’t 


IPHIGENIA. - 


I31 

leave us.” So Mary informed her brother, with a 
somewhat sombre air, that Miss Harding was in the 
next room, and was coming to speak to him. 

Eleanor was certainly thinking more of her father 
than herself, as she arranged her hair before the glass, 
and removed the traces of sorrow from her face ; and 
yet I should be untrue if I said that she was not anx- 
ious to appear well before her lover. Why else was 
she so sedulous with that stubborn curl that would 
rebel against her hand, and smooth so eagerly her 
ruffled ribands? Why else did she damp her eyes to 
dispel the redness, and bite her pretty lips to bring 
back the colour? Of coiurse she was anxious to look 
her best, for she was but a mortal angel after all. But 
had she been immortal, had she flitted back to the sit- 
ting-room on a cherub’s wings, she could not have had 
a more faithful heart, or a truer wish to save her father 
at any cost to herself. 

John Bold had not met her since the day when she 
left him in dudgeon in the cathedral close. Since that 
his whole time had been occupied in promoting the 
cause against her father, — and not unsuccessfully. He 
had often thought of her, and turned over in his mind 
a hundred schemes for showing her how disinterested 
was his love. He would write to her and beseech her 
not to allow the performance of a public duty to injure 
him in her estimation ; he would write to Mr. Harding, 
explain all his views, and boldly claim the warden’s 
daughter, urging that the untoward circumstances be- 
tween them need be no bar to their ancient friendship, 
or to a closer tie ; he would throw himself on his knees 
before his mistress; he would wait and marry the 
daughter when the father had lost his home and his im 


132 


THE WARDEN. 


come ; he would give up the lawsuit and go to Austra- 
lia, with her of course, leaving the Jupiter and Mr. 
Finney to complete the case between them. Some- 
times as he woke in the morning fevered and impatient, 
he would blow out his brains and have done with all 
his cares ; — but this idea was generally consequent on 
an imprudent supper enjoyed in company with Tom 
Towers. 

How beautiful Eleanor appeared to him as she 
slowly walked into the room! Not for nothing had all 
those little cares been taken. Though her sister, the 
archdeacon’s wife, had spoken slightingly of her charms, 
Eleanor was very beautiful when seen aright. Hers 
was not of those impassive faces, which have the 
beauty of a marble bust ; finely chiselled features, per- 
fect in every line, true to the rules of symmetry, as 
lovely to a sfranger as to a- friend, unvarying unless in 
sickness, or as age affects them. She had no startling 
brilliancy of beauty, no pearly whiteness, no radiant car- 
nation. She had not the majestic contour that rivets at- 
tention, demands instant wonder, and then disappoints 
by the coldness of its charms. You might pass Eleanor 
Harding in the street without notice, but you could 
hardly pass an evening with her and not lose your heart. 

She had never appeared more lovely to her lover 
than she did now. Her face was animated though it 
was serious, and her full dark lustrous eyes shone with 
anxious energy ; her hand trembled as she took his, 
and she could hardly pronounce his name, when she 
addressed him. Bold wished with all his heart that the 
Australian scheme was in the act of realisation, and 
that he and Eleanor were away together, never to hear 
further of the lawsuit. 


IPHIOENIA, 


133 


He began to talk, asked after her health ; — said 
something about London being very stupid, and more 
about Barchester being very pleasant; declared the 
weather to be very hot, and then inquired after Mr. 
Harding. 

‘‘ My father is not very well,” said Eleanor. 

John Bold was very sorry, — so sorry! He hoped it 
was nothing serious, and put on the unmeaningly 
solemn face, which people usually use on such occasions. 

“ I especially want to speak to you about my father, 
Mr. Bold. Indeed, I am now here on purpose to do 
so. Papa is very unhappy, very unhappy indeed, about 
this affair of the hospital. You would pity him, Mr. 
Bold, if you could see how wretched it has made him.” 

“Oh Miss Harding!” 

“ Indeed you would ; — any one would pity him ; 
but a friend, an old friend as you are; — indeed you 
would. He is an altered man ; his cheerfulness has 
all gone, and his sweet temper, and his kind happy 
tone of voice ; you would hardly know him if you saw 
him, Mr. Bold, he is so much altered ; and — and — if 
this goes on, he will die.” Here Eleanor had recourse 
to her handkerchief, and so also had her auditors ; but 
she plucked up her courage, and went on with her tale. 
“He will break his heart, and die. I am sure, Mr. 
Bold, it was not you who wrote those cruel things in 
the newspaper.” 

John Bold eagerly protested' that it was not, but his 
heart smote him as to his intimate alliance with Tom 
Towers. 

“No, I am sure it was not ; and papa has not for a 
moment thought so ; you would not be so cruel ; — ^but 
it has nearly killed him. Papa cannot bear to think 


r34 


THE WARDEN. 


that people should so speak of him, and that every- 
body should hear him so spoken of. They have called 
him avaricious, and dishonest, and they say he is rob- 
bing the old men, and taking the money of the hospital 
for nothing.” 

“ I have never said so. Miss Harding. I ” 

‘"No,” continued Eleanor, interrupting him, for she 
was now in the full flood tide of her eloquence ; “ no, 
I am sure you have not ; but others have said so ; and 
if this goes on, if such things are written again, it will 
kill papa. Oh! Mr. Bold, if you only knew the state 
he is in! Now papa does not care much about money.” 

Both her auditors, brother and sister, assented to this, 
and declared on their own knowledge that no man lived 
less addicted to filthy lucre than the warden. 

“ Oh! it ’s so kind of you to say so, Mary, and of 
you too, Mr. Bold. I could n’t bear that people should 
think unjustly of papa. Do you know he would give 
up the hospital altogether; — only he cannot. The 
archdeacon says it would be cowardly, and that he 
would be deserting his order, and injuring the church. 
Whatever may happen, papa will not do that. He 
would leave the place to-morrow willingly, and give up 
his house, and the income and all, if the archdea- 
con ” Eleanor was going to say would let him,” 

but she stopped herself before she had compromised 
her father’s dignity ; and giving a long sigh, she added 
— “ Oh, I do so wish he would! ” 

No one who knows Mr. Harding personally, ac- 
cuses him for a moment,” said Bold. 

“ It is he that has to bear the punishment ; it is he 
that suffers,” said Eleanor ; ” and what for? what has 
he done wrong? how has he deserved this persecution? 


IPHIGENIA. 


*35 


he that never had an unkind thought in his life, he that 
never said an unkind word! ” and here she broke down, 
and the violence of her sobs stopped her utterance. 

Bold, for the fifth or sixth time, declared that neither 
he nor any of his friends imputed any blame person- 
ally to Mr. Harding. 

“ Then why should he be persecuted?” ejaculated 
Eleanor through her tears, forgetting in her eagerness 
that her intention had been to humble herself as a sup- 
pliant before John Bold; — ‘"why should he be singled 
out for scorn and disgrace? why should he be made 
so wretched? Oh! Mr. Bold,” — and she turned to- 
wards him as though the kneeling scene were about 
to be commenced — “ oh ! Mr. Bold, why did you begin 
all this? You, whom we all so — so — valued! ” 

To speak the truth, the reformer’s punishment was 
certainly come upon him ; his present plight was not 
enviable ; he had nothing for it but to excuse himself 
by platitudes about public duty, which it is by no 
means worth while to repeat, and to reiterate his eulogy 
on Mr. Harding’s character. His position was cer- 
tainly a cruel one. Had any gentleman called upon 
him on behalf of Mr. Harding he could of course have 
declined to enter upon the subject ; but how could he 
do so with a beautiful girl, with the daughter of the 
man whom he had injured, with his own love? 

In the meantime Eleanor recollected herself, and 
again summoned up her energies. 

“ Mr. Bold,” said she, “ I have come here to implore 
you to abandon this proceeding.” He stood up from 
his seat, and looked beyond measure distressed. “To 
implore you to abandon it, to implore you to spare my 
father, to spare either his life or his reason, for one or 


THE WARDEN. 


the other will pay the forfeit if this goes on. I know 
how much I am asking, and how little right I have to 
ask anything; but I think you will listen to me as it 
is for my father. Oh, Mr. Bold, pray, pray do this for 
us ; — pray do not drive to distraction a man who has 
loved you so well.” 

She did not absolutely kneel to him, but she followed 
him as he moved from his chair, and laid her soft hands 
imploringly upon his arm. Ah! at any other time how 
exquisitely valuable would have been that touch! but 
now he was distraught, dumb-founded, and unmanned. 
What could he say to that sweet suppliant ; how ex- 
plain to her that the matter now was probably beyond 
his control ; how tell her that he could not quell the 
storm which he had raised? 

^‘Surely, surely, John, you cannot refuse her,” said 
his sister. 

“ I would give her my soul,” said he, “ if it would 
serve her.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Bold,” said Eleanor, “ do not speak so ; 
I ask nothing for myself ; and what I ask for my 
father, it cannot harm you to grant.” 

“ I would give her my soul, if it would serve her,” 
said Bold, still addressing his sister ; “ everything I 
have is hers, if she will accept it ; my house, my heart, 
my all ; every hope of my breast is centred in her ; 
her smiles are sweeter to me than the sun, and when 
I see her in sorrow as she now is, every nerve in my 
body suffers. No man can love better than I love 
her.” 

“ No, no, no,” ejaculated Eleanor ; there can be no 
talk of love between us. Will you protect my father 
from the evil you have brought upon him? ” 


IPHIGENIA. 


137 


“ Oh, Eleanor, I will do anything ; let me tell you 
how I love you! ” 

“No, no, no,” she almost screamed. “This is un- 
manly of you, Mr. Bold. Will you, will you, will you 
leave my father to die in peace in his quiet home? ” 
And seizing him by his arm and hand, she followed 
him across the room towards the door. “ I will not 
leave you till you promise me ; I ’ll cling to you in the 
street; I ’ll kneel to you before all the people. You 
shall promise me this ; you shall promise me this ; you 

shall ” And she clung to him with fixed tenacity, 

and reiterated her resolve with hysterical passion. 

“Speak to her, John; answer her,” said Mary, be- 
wildered by the unexpected vehemence of Eleanor’s 
manner ; “ you cannot have the cruelty to refuse her.” 

“ Promise me, promise me,” said Eleanor ; “ say that 
my father is safe. One word will do. I know how 
true you are ; say one word, and I will let you go.” 

She still held him, and looked eagerly into his face, 
with her hair dishevelled, and her eyes all bloodshot. 
She had no thought now of herself, no care now for 
her appearance ; and yet he thought he had never seen 
her half so lovely ; he was amazed at the intensity of 
her beauty, and could hardly believe that it was she 
whom he had dared to love. “ Promise me,” said she. 
“ I will not leave you till you have promised me.” 

“ I will,” said he at length ; “ I do. All I can do, 
I will do.” 

“ Then may God Almighty bless you for ever and 
ever!” said Eleanor; and falling on her knees with 
her face on Mary’s lap, she wept and sobbed like a 
child. Her strength had carried her through her al* 
lotted task^ but now it was well nigh exhausted. 


138 THE WARDEN. 

In a while she was partly recovered, and got up to 
go, and would have gone, had not Bold made her un- 
derstand that it was necessary for him to explain to 
her how far it was in his power to put an end to the 
proceedings which had been taken against Mr. Hard- 
ing. Had he spoken on any other subject, she would 
have vanished, but on that she was bound to hear him. 
And now the danger of her position commenced. 
While she had an active part to play, while she clung 
to him as a suppliant, it was easy enough for her to re- 
ject his proffered love, and cast from her his caressing 
words ; but now, — now that he had yielded, and was 
talking to her calmly and kindly as to her father’s 
welfare, it was hard enough for her to do so. Then 
Mary Bold assisted her ; but now she was quite on her 
brother’s side. Mary said but little, but every word 
she did say gave some direct and deadly blow. The 
first thing she did was to make room for her brother 
between herself and Eleanor on the sofa. As the sofa 
was full large for three, Eleanor could not resent this, 
nor could she show suspicion by taking another seat ; 
but she felt it to be a most unkind proceeding. And 
then Mary would talk as though they three were joined 
in some close peculiar bond together ; as though they 
were in future always to wish together, contrive to- 
gether, and act together ; and Eleanor could not gain- 
say this ; she could not make another speech, and say, 
“ Mr. Bold and I are strangers, Mary, and are always 
to remain so ! ” 

He explained to her that, though undoubtedly the 
proceeding against the hospital had commenced solely 
with himself, many others were now interested in the 
matter, some of whom were much more influential than 


IPHIGENIA. 


139 

himself ; that it was to him alone, however, that the law- 
yers looked for instruction as to their doings, and, more 
important still, for the payment of their bills. And he 
promised that he would at once give them notice that 
it was his intention to abandon the cause. He thought, 
he said, that it was not probable that any active steps 
would be taken after he had seceded from the matter, 
though it was possible that some passing allusion might 
still be made to the hospital in the daily Jupiter. He 
promised, however, that he would use his best influ- 
ence to prevent any further personal allusion being 
made to Mr. Harding. He then suggested that he 
would on that afternoon ride over himself to Dr. 
Grantly, and inform him of his altered intentions on 
the subject, and with this view, he postponed his im- 
mediate return to London. 

This was all very pleasant, and Eleanor did enjoy 
a sort of triumph in the feeling that she had attained 
the object for which she had sought this interview. 
But still the part of Iphigenia was to be played out. 
The gods had heard her prayer, granted her request, 
and were they not to have their promised sacrifice? 
Eleanor was not a girl to defraud them wilfully; 
so, as soon as she decently could, she got up for her 
bonnet. 

‘'Are you going so soon? ” said Bold, who half-an- 
hour since would have given a hundred pounds that 
he was in London, and she still at Barchester. 

“Oh yes!” said she. “I am so much obliged to 
you ; papa will feel this to be so kind.” She did not 
quite appreciate all her father’s feelings. “ Of course 
I must tell him, and I will say that you will see the 
archdeacon.” 


140 


THE WARDEN. 


“ But may I not say one word for myself? ” said 
Bold. 

'' I ’ll fetch you your bonnet, Eleanor,” said Mary, 
in the act of leaving the room. 

Mary, Mary,” said she, getting up and catching her 
by her dress ; “ don’t go, I ’ll get my bonnet myself ; 
but Mary, the traitress, stood fast by the door, and 
permitted no such retreat. Poor Iphigenia! 

And with a volley of impassioned love, John Bold 
poured forth the feelings of his heart, swearing, as men 
do, some truths and many falsehoods; and Eleanor 
repeated with every shade of vehemence the “No, no, 
no,” which had had a short time since so much effect. 
But now, alas! its strength was gone. Let her be 
never so vehement, her vehemence was not respected. 
All her “ No, no, no’s ” were met with counter assever- 
ations, and at last were overpowered. The ground 
was cut from under her on every side. She was pressed 
to say whether her father would object ; whether she 
herself had any aversion; — aversion! God help her, 
poor girl! the word nearly made her jump into his 
arms — ; any other preference; — this she loudly dis- 
claimed — ; whether it was impossible that she should 
love him ; — Eleanor could not say that it was impossi- 
ble — ; and so at last, all her defences demolished, all 
her maiden barriers swept away ; she capitulated, or 
rather marched out with the honours of war, van- 
quished evidently, palpably vanquished, but still not re- 
duced to the necessity of confessing it. 

And so the altar on the shore of the modern Aulis 
reeked with no sacrifice. 


CHAPTER XII. 


MR. bold’s visit TO PLUMSTEAD. 

Whether or no the ill-natured prediction made by 
certain ladies in the beginning of the last chapter, was 
or was not carried out to the letter, I am not in a posi- 
tion to state. Eleanor, however, certainly did feel her- 
self to have been baffled as she returned home with all 
her news to her father. Certainly she had been victo- 
rious, certainly she had achieved her object, certainly 
she was not unhappy ; and yet she did not feel herself 
triumphant. Everything would run smooth now. El- 
eanor was not at all addicted to the Lydian school of 
romance. She by no means objected to her lover be- 
cause he came in at the door under the name of Abso- 
lute, instead of pulling her out of a window under the 
name of Beverley. Yet she felt that she had been im- 
posed upon, and could hardly think of Mary Bold with 
sisterly charity. I did believe I could have trusted 
Mary,” she said to herself over and over again. Oh 
that she should have dared to keep me in the room 
when I tried to get out!” Eleanor, however, felt 
that the game was up, and that she had now nothing 
further to do, but to add to the budget of news which 
was prepared for her father, that John Bold was her 
accepted lover. 

We will, however, now leave her on her way, and 


142 


THE WARDEN. 


go with John Bold to Plumstead Episcopi, merely 
premising that Eleanor on reaching home will not find 
things so smooth as she fondly expected. Two mes- 
sengers had come, one to her father, and the other to 
the archdeacon, and each of them much opposed to 
her quiet mode of solving all their difficulties; — the 
one in the shape of a number of the Jupiter, and the 
other in that of a further opinion from Sir Abraham 
Haphazard. 

John Bold got on his horse and rode off to Plum- 
stead Episcopi ; not briskly and with eager spur, as 
men do ride when self-satisfied with their own inten- 
tions ; but slowly, modestly, thoughtfully, and some- 
what in dread of the coming interview. Now and 
again he would recur to the scene which was just over, 
support himself by the remembrance of the silence that 
gives consent, and exult as a happy lover. But even 
this feeling was not without a shade of remorse. Had 
he not shown himself childishly weak thus to yield up 
the resolve of many hours of thought to the tears of a 
pretty girl? How was he to meet his lawyer? How 
was he to back out of a matter in which his name was 
already so publicly concerned? What, oh what! was 
he to say to Tom Towers? While meditating these 
painful things he reached the lodge leading up to the 
archdeacon’s glebe, and for the first time in his life 
found himself within the sacred precincts. 

All the doctor’s children were together on the slope 
of the lawn, close to the road, as Bold rode up to the 
hall door. They were there holding high debate on 
matters evidently of deep interest at Plumstead Epis- 
copi, and the voices of the boys had been heard before 
the lodge gate was closed. 


MR. bold’s visit TO PLUMSTEAD. 1 45 

Florinda and Grizzel, frightened at the sight of so 
well-known an enemy to the family, fled on the first 
appearance of the horseman, and ran in terror to their 
mother’s arms. Not for them was it, tender branches, 
to resent injuries, or as members of a church militant to 
put on armour against its enemies. But the boys stood 
their ground like heroes, and boldly demanded the 
business of the intruder. 

“ Do you want to see anybody here, sir? ” said 
Henry, with a defiant eye and a hostile tone, which 
plainly said that at any rate no one there wanted to 
see the person so addressed ; and as he spoke he bran- 
dished aloft his garden water-pot, holding it by the 
spout, ready for the braining of any one. 

“Henry,” said Charles James, slowly, and with a 
certain dignity of diction, “ Mr. Bold of course would 
not have come without wanting to see some one. If 
Mr. Bold has a proper ground for wanting to see some 
person here, of course he has a right to come.” 

But Samuel stepped lightly up to the horse’s head, 
and offered his services. “ Oh, Mr. Bold,” said he, 
“ papa, I ’m sure, will be glad to see you. I suppose 
you want to see papa. Shall I hold your horse for 
you? Oh, what a very pretty horse!” and he turned 
his head and winked funnily at his brothers. “ Papa 
has heard such good news about the old hospital to- 
day. We know you ’ll be glad to hear it, because 
you ’re such a friend of grandpapa Harding, and so 
much in love with aunt Nelly! ” 

“ How d’ye do, lads? ” said Bold, dismounting. “ I 
want to see your father if he ’s at home.” 

“Lads!” said Henry, turning on his heel and ad- 
dressing himself to his brother, but loud enough to be 


144 


THE WARDEN. 


heard by Bold; “lads, indeed! if we ’re lads, what 
does he call himself ? ” 

Charles James condescended to say nothing further, 
but cocked his hat with much precision, and left the 
visitor to the care of his youngest brother. 

Samuel stayed till the servant came, chatting and 
patting the horse; but as soon as Bold had disap- 
peared through the front door, he stuck a switch under 
the animal’s tail to make him kick, if possible. 

The church reformer soon found himself tete h tete 
with the archdeacon in that same room, in that sanc- 
tum sanctorum of the rectory, to which we have already 
been introduced. As he entered he heard the click of 
a certain patent lock, but it struck him with no sur- 
prise ; the worthy clergyman was no doubt hiding 
from eyes profane his last much-studied sermon ; for 
the archdeacon, though he preached but seldom, was 
famous for his sermons. No room. Bold thought, 
could have been more becoming for a dignitary of the 
church; each wall was loaded with theology; over 
each separate book-case was printed in small gold let- 
ters the names of those great divines whose works were 
ranged beneath ; beginning from the early fathers in 
due chronological order, there were to be found the 
precious labours of the chosen servants of the church 
down to the last pamphlet written in opposition to the 
consecration of Dr. Hampden ; — and raised above this 
were to be seen the busts of the greatest among the 
great ; Chrysostom, St. Augustine, Thomas k Becket, 
Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop Laud, and Dr. Philpotts. 

Every appliance that could make study pleasant and 
give ease to the over-toiled brain was there ; chairs 
made to relieve each limb and muscle ; reading-desks 


MR. BOLD^S VISIT TO RLUMSTEAD. 


H5 

and writing-desks to suit every attitude; lamps and 
candles mechanically contrived to throw their light on 
any favoured spot, as the student might desire ; a shoal 
of newspapers to amuse the few leisure moments which 
might be stolen from the labours of the day ; and then 
from the window a view right through a bosky vista 
along which ran a broad green path from the rectory 
to the church, — at the end of which the tawny-tinted 
fine old tower was seen with all its variegated pinnacles 
and parapets. Few parish churches in England are in 
better repair, or better worth keeping so, than that at 
Plumstead Episcopi ; and yet it is built in a faulty 
style. The body of the church is low ; — so low, that 
the nearly flat leaden roof would be visible from the 
chiurchyard, were it not for the carved parapet with 
which it is surrounded. It is cruciform, though the 
transepts are irregular, one being larger than the other ; 
and the tower is much too high in proportion to the 
church. But the colour of the building is perfect ; it 
is that rich yellow grey which one finds nowhere but 
in the south and west of England, and which is so 
strong a characteristic of most of our old houses of 
Tudor architecture. The stone work also is beautiful ; 
the mullions of the windows and the thick tracery of 
the Gothic workmanship is as rich as fancy can desire ; 
and though in gazing on such a structure, one knows 
by rule that the old priests who built it, built it wrong, 
one cannot bring oneself to wish that they should have 
made it other than it is. j 

When Bold was ushered into the book-room, ^ 
found its owner standing with his back to the em^ty 
fireplace ready to receive him, and he could not but 
perceive that that expansive brow was elated with 
IQ 


146 


THE WARDEN, 


triumph, and that those full heavy lips bore more prom- 
inently than usual an appearance of arrogant success. 

“ Well, Mr. Bold,” said he ; — “ well, what can I do 
for you? Very happy, I can assure you, to do any- 
thing for such a friend of my father-in-law.” 

“ I hope you ’ll excuse my calling. Dr. Grantly.” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said the archdeacon ; “ I can 
assure you, no apology is necessary from Mr. Bold ; — 
only let me know what I can do for him.” 

Dr. Grantly was standing himself, and he did not 
ask Bold to sit, and therefore he had to tell his tale 
standing, leaning on the table, with his hat in his hand. 
He did, however, manage to tell it ; and as the arch- 
deacon never once interrupted him or even encouraged 
him by a single word, he was not long in coming to 
the end of it. 

And so, Mr. Bold, I ’m to understand, I believe, 
that you are desirous of abandoning this attack upon 
Mr. Harding.” 

“ Oh, Dr. Grantly, there has been no attack, I can 
assure you.” 

Well, well, we won’t quarrel about words ; I should 
call it an attack ; — most men would so call an endeav- 
our to take away from a man every shilling of income 
that he has to live upon ; but it shan’t be an attack, if 
you don’t like it ; you wish to abandon this, — this little 
game of back-gammon you ’ve begun to play.” 

I intend to put an end to the legal proceedings 
which I have commenced.” 

“ I understand,” said the archdeacon. “ You ’ve 
already had enough of it. Well, I can’t say that I am 
surprised. Carrying on a losing lawsuit where one has 
nothing to gain, but everything to pay, is not pleasant.” 


MR. bold's visit TO PLUMSTEAD. 147 

Bold turned very red in the face. "‘You misinter- 
pret my motives,” said he ; “ but, however, that is of 
little consequence. I did not come to trouble you 
with my motives, but to tell you a matter of fact. 
Good morning. Dr. Grantly.” 

“ One moment, — one moment,” said the other. “ I 
don’t exactly appreciate the taste which induced you 
to make any personal communication to me on the 
subject; but I dare say I ’m wrong; I dare say your 
judgment is the better of the two ; but as you have 
done me the honour; — as you have, as it were, forced 
me into a certain amount of conversation on a subject 
which had better, perhaps, have been left to our law- 
yers, you will excuse me if I ask you to hear my reply 
to your communication.” 

” I am in a hurry. Dr. Grantly.” 

“Well, I am, Mr. Bold; my time is not exactly 
leisure time, and, therefore, if you please, we ’ll go to 
the point at once. You are going to abandon this law- 
suit? ” — and he paused for a reply. 

“Yes, Dr. Grantly, I am.” 

“ Having exposed a gentleman who was one of your 
father’s warmest friends, to all the ignominy and inso- 
lence which the press could heap upon his name, hav- 
ing somewhat ostentatiously declared that it was your 
duty as a man of high public virtue to protect those 
poor old fools whom you have humbugged there at 
the hospital, you now find that the game costs more 
than it ’s worth, and so you make up your mind to 
have done with it. A prudent resolution, Mr. Bold ; — 
but it is a pity you should have been so long coming 
to it. Has it struck you that we may not now choose 
to give over? that we may find it necessary to punish 


148 


THE WARDEN. 


the injury you have done to us? Are you aware, sir, 
that we have gone to enormous expense to resist this 
iniquitous attempt of yours? ” 

Bold’s face was now furiously red, and he nearly 
crushed his hat between his hands ; but he said 
nothing. 

“We have found it necessary to employ the best ad- 
vice that money could procure. Are you aware, sir, 
what may be the probable cost of securing the services 
of the attorney- general? ” 

“ Not in the least. Dr. Grantly.” 

“ I dare say not, sir. When you recklessly put this 
affair into the hands of your friend Mr. Finney, whose 
six and eightpences and thirteen and fourpences may, | 
probably, not amount to a large sum, you were indif- 
ferent as to the cost and suffering which such a pro- 
ceeding might entail on others. But are you aware, 
sir, that these crushing costs must now come out of i 
your own pocket? ” 

“ Any demand of such a nature which Mr. Harding’s 
lawyer may have to make, will doubtless be made to 
my lawyer.” 

“ Mr. Harding’s lawyer and my lawyer! Did you ; 
come here merely to refer me to the lawyers? Upon i 
my word I think the honour of your visit might have ^ 
been spared! And now, sir, I ’ll tell you what my 
opinion is. My opinion is, that we shall not allow you 
to withdraw this matter from the courts.” 

“You can do as you please. Dr. Grantly; good 
morning.” j 

“ Hear me out, sir,” said the archdeacon. “ I have ■ 
here in my hands the last opinion given in this matter I 
by Sir Abraham Haphazard. I dare say you have 1 * 


MR. bold’s visit TO PLUMSTEAD. 


149 


already heard of this. I dare say it has had something 
to do with your visit here to-day.” 

'' I know nothing whatever of Sir Abraham Hap- 
hazard or his opinion.” 

“ Be that as it may, here it is. He declares most 
explicitly that under no phasis of the affair whatever 
have you a leg to stand upon; that Mr. Harding is 
as safe in^his hospital as I am here in my rectory ; that 
a more futile attempt to destroy a man was never made, 
than this which you have made to ruin Mr. Harding. 
Here,” and he slapped the paper on the table, I have 
this opinion from the very first lawyer in the land ; and 
under these circumstances you expect me to make you 
a low bow for your kind offer to release Mr. Hard- 
ing from the toils of your net! Sir, your net is not 
strong enough to hold him ; sir, your net has fallen 
to pieces, and you knew that well enough before I told 
you. And now, sir, I ’ll wish you good morning, for 
I am busy.” 

Bold was now choking with passion. He had let the 
archdeacon run on, because he knew not with what 
words to interrupt him ; but now that he had been so 
defied and insulted, he could not leave the room with- 
out some reply. 

“ Dr. Grantly,” he commenced. 

“ I have nothing further to say or to hear,” said the 
archdeacon. I ’ll do myself the honour to order your 
horse.” And he rang the bell. 

“ I came here. Dr. Grantly, with the warmest, kind- 
est feelings ” 

Oh, of course you did ; nobody doubts it.” 

"'With the kindest feelings; — and they have been 
most grossly outraged by your treatment.” 


THE WARDEN. 


150 

''Of course they have! I have not chosen to see 
my father-in-law ruined. What an outrage that has | 
been to your feelings ! ” 

"The time will come, Dr. Grantly, when you will I 
understand why I called upon you to-day.” 

"No doubt ; no doubt. Is Mr. Bold’s horse there? 
That ’s right ; open the front door. Good morning, 

Mr. Bold and the doctor stalked into his own draw- 
ing-room, closing the door behind him, and making it 
quite impossible that John Bold should speak another 
word to him. 

As John Bold got on his horse, which he was fain 
to do feehng like a dog turned out of a kitchen, he 
was again greeted by little Sammy. 

" Good-bye, Mr. Bold ; I hope we may have the 
pleasure of seeing you again before long ; I am sine 
papa will always be glad to see you.” 

That was certainly the bitterest moment in John 
Bold’s life. Not even the remembrance of his success- 
ful love could comfort him. Nay, when he thought 
of Eleanor, he felt that it was that very love which had 
brought him to such a pass. That he should have 
been so insulted, and be unable to reply! That he j 

should have given up so much to the request of a girl, [ 

and then have had his motives so misunderstood! That I 
he should have made so gross a mistake as this visit of 
his to the archdeacon’s! He bit the top of his whip, 
till he penetrated the horn of which it was made. He 
struck the poor animal in his anger, and then was 
doubly angry with himself at his futile passion. He 
had been so completely check-mated, so palpably over- / 
come! And what was he to do? He could not con- - 

3f 

tinue his action after pledging himself to abandon it. | 


MR* bold’s visit TO PLUMSTEAD. I51 

Nor was there any revenge in that It was the very 
step to which his enemy had endeavoured to goad him! 

He threw the reins to the servant who came to take 
his horse, and rushed upstairs into his drawing-room, 
where his sister Mary was sitting. 

“ If there be a devil,” said he, " a real devil here 
on earth, it is Dr. Grantly.” He vouchsafed her no 
further intelhgence, but again seizing his hat, he rushed 
out, and took his departure for London without another 
word to any one. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE warden’s decision. 

The meeting between Eleanor and her father was 
not so stormy as that described in the last chapter, but 
it was hardly more successful. On her return from 
Bold’s house she found her father in a strange state. 
He was not sorrowful and silent as he had been on 
that memorable day when his son-in-law lectured him 
as to all that he owed to his order ; nor was he in his 
usual quiet mood. When Eleanor reached the hos- 
pital, he was walking to and fro upon the lawn, and 
she soon saw that he was much excited. 

'' I am going to London, my dear,” he said as soon 
as he saw her. 

To London, papa! ” 

"'Yes, my dear, to London ; I will have this matter 
settled in some way. There are some things, Eleanor, 
which I cannot bear.” 

" Oh, papa, what is it ? ” said she, leading him by the 
arm into the house. I had such good news for you, 
and now you make me fear I am too late.” And 
then, before he could let her know what had caused 
this sudden resolve, or could point to the fatal paper 
which lay on the table, she told him that the lawsuit 
was over, that Bold had commissioned her to assure 
her father in his name that it would be abandoned,— 


THE warden’s decision. 


153 


that there was no further cause for misery, and that 
the whole matter might be looked on as though it had 
never been discussed. She did not tell him with what 
determined vehemence she had obtained this conces- 
sion in his favour, nor did she mention the price she 
was to pay for it. The warden did not express him- 
self peculiarly gratified at this intelligence, and Elea- 
nor, though she had not worked for thanks, and was 
by no means disposed to magnify her own good offices, 
felt hurt at the manner in which her news was received. 
“ Mr. Bold can act as he thinks proper, my love,” said 
he ; “ if Mr. Bold thinks he has been wrong, of course 
he will discontinue what he is doing ; but that cannot 
change my purpose.” 

“ Oh, papa ! ” she exclaimed, all but crying with vex- 
ation ; I thought you would have been so happy ; — • 
I thought all would have been right now.” 

‘‘ Mr. Bold,” continued he, ‘‘ has set great people to 
work ; — so great that I doubt they are now beyond 
his control. Read that, my dear.” The warden, 
doubling up a number of the Jupiter, pointed to the 
peculiar article which she was to read. It was to the 
last of the three leaders which are generally furnished 
daily for the support of the nation that Mr. Harding 
directed her attention. It dealt some heavy blows on 
various clerical delinquents ; on families who received 
their tens of thousands yearly for doing nothing ; on 
men who, as the article stated, rolled in wealth which 
they had neither earned nor inherited, and which was 
in fact stolen from the poorer clergy. It named some 
sons of bishops, and grandsons of archbishops ; men 
great in their way, who had redeemed their disgrace 
in the eyes of many by the enormity of their plunder; 


154 


THE WARDEN. 


and then, having disposed of these leviathans, it de- 
scended to Mr. Harding. 

“We alluded some weeks since to an instance of 
similar injustice, though in a more humble scale, in 
which the warden of an alms-house at Barchester has 
become possessed of the income of the greater part of 
the whole institution. Why an alms-house should have 
a warden we cannot pretend to explain, nor can we 
say what special need twelve old men can have for the 
services of a separate clergyman, seeing that they have 
twelve reserved seats for themselves in Barchester Ca- 
thedral. But be this as it may, let the gentleman call 
himself warden or precentor, or what he will, — let him 
be never so scrupulous in exacting religious duties from 
his twelve dependants, or never so negligent as regards 
the services of the cathedral, — it appears palpably clear 
that entitled to no portion of the revenue of 

the hospital, excepting that which the founder set apart 
for him ; and it is equally clear that the founder did 
not intend that three-fifths of his charity should be so 
consumed. 

“ The case is certainly a paltry one after the tens of 
thousands with which we have been dealing, for the 
warden’s income is after all but a poor eight hundred 
a year. Eight hundred a year is not magnificent pre- 
ferment of itself, and the warden may, for anything we 
know, be worth much more to the church. But if so, let 
the church pay him out of funds justly at its own disposal. 

“We allude to the question of the Barchester alms- 
house at the present moment, because we understand 
that a plea has been set up which will be peculiarly re- 
volting to the minds of English churchmen. An action 
has been taken against Mr. warden Harding, on be- 


THE warden’s decision. 155 

half of the almsmen, by a gentleman acting solely on 
public grounds, and it is to be argued that Mr. Hard- 
ing takes nothing but what he receives as a servant of 
the hospital, and that he is not himself responsible for 
the amount of stipend given to him for his work. Such 
a plea would doubtless be fair, if any one questioned 
the daily wages of a bricklayer employed on a build- 
ing, or the fee of the charwoman who cleans it ; but 
we cannot envy the feeling of a clergyman of the 
Church of England who could allow such an argument 
to be put in his mouth. 

“ If this plea be put forward we trust Mr. Harding 
will be forced as a witness to state the nature of his 
employment ; the amount of work that he does ; the 
income which he receives ; and the source from whence 
he obtained his appointment. We do not think he will 
receive much public sympathy to atone for the annoy- 
ance of such an examination.” 

As Eleanor read the article her face flushed with 
indignation, and when she had finished it, she almost 
feared to look up at her father. 

“ Well, my dear,”" said he ; what do you think of 
that? Is it worth while to be a warden at that price? ” 

'' Oh, papa ; — dear papa! ” 

Mr. Bold can’t unwrite that, my dear. Mr. Bold 
can’t say that that shan’t be read by every clergyman 
at Oxford ; nay, by every gentleman in the land.” 
Then he walked up and down the room, while Eleanor 
in mute despair followed him with her eyes. “ And I ’ll 
tell you what, my dear,” he continued, speaking now 
very calmly, and in a forced manner very unlike him- 
self ; Mr. Bold can’t dispute the truth of every word 
in that article you have just read — nor can I.” Elea- 


THE WARDEN. 


*56 

nor stared at him, as though she scarcely understood 
the words he was speaking. “ Nor can I, Eleanor. 
That ’s the worst of all, or would be so if there were 
no remedy. I have thought much of all this since we 
were together last night and he came and sat beside 
her, and put his arm round her waist as he had done 
then. I have thought much of what the archdeacon 
has said, and of what this paper says ; and I do believe 
I have no right to be here.” 

“ No right to be warden of the hospital, papa? ” 

“No right to be warden with eight hundred a year ; 
— no right to be warden with such a house as this ; 
no right to spend in luxury money that was intended 
for charity. Mr. Bold may do as he pleases about his 
suit, but I hope he will not abandon it for my sake.” 

Poor Eleanor! this was hard upon her. Was it for 
this she had made her great resolve! For this that she 
had laid aside her quiet demeanoiu-, and taken upon 
her the rants of a tragedy heroine! One may work 
and not for thanks, — ^but yet feel hurt at not receiving 
them ; and so it was with Eleanor. One may be dis- 
interested in one’s good actions, and yet feel discon- 
tented that they are not recognised. Charity may be 
given with the left hand so privily that the right hand 
does not knaw it, and yet the left hand may regret to 
feel that it has no immediate reward. Eleanor had had 
no wish to burden her father with a weight of obliga- 
tion, and yet she had looked forward to much delight 
from the knowledge that she had freed him from his 
sorrows. Now such hopes were entirely over. All 
that she had done was of no avail. She had humbled 
herself to Bold in vain. The evil was utterly beyond 
her power to cure! 


THE warden’s decision. 1 57 

She had thought also how gently she would whisper 
to her father all that her lover had said to her about 
herself, and how impossible she had found it to reject 
him. And then she had anticipated her father’s kindly 
kiss and close embrace as he gave his sanction to her 
love. Alas! she could say nothing of this now. In 
speaking of Mr. Bold, her father put him aside as one 
whose thoughts and sayings and acts could be of no 
moment. Gentle reader, did you ever feel yourself 
snubbed? Did you ever, when thinking much of your 
own importance, find yourself suddenly reduced to a 
nonentity? Such was Eleanor’s feeling now. 

“ They shall not put foward this plea on my behalf,” 
continued the warden. Whatever may be the truth 
of the matter, that at any rate is not true ; and the 
man who wrote that article is right in saying that such 
a plea is revolting to an honest mind. I will go up to 
London, my dear, and see these lawyers myself, and if 
no better excuse can be made for me than that, I and 
the hospital will part.” 

“ But the archdeacon, papa? ” 

“I can’t help it, my dear; there are some things 
which a man cannot bear. I cannot bear that — and 
he put his hand upon the newspaper. 

“ But will the archdeacon go with you? ” 

To tell the truth, Mr. Harding had made up his mind 
to steal a march upon the archdeacon. He was aware 
that he could take no steps without informing his dread 
son-in-law ; but he had resolved that he would send 
out a note to Plumstead Episcopi detailing his plans, 
but that the messenger should not leave Barchester till 
he himself had started for London ; — so that he might 
be a day before the doctor, who, he had no doubt, 


THE WARDEN. 


158 

would follow him. In that day, if he had luck, he 
might arrange it all. He might explain to Sir Abra- 
ham that he, as warden, would have nothing further to 
do with the defence about to be set up ; he might send 
in his official resignation to his friend the bishop, and 
so make public the whole transaction, that even the 
archdeacon would not be able to undo what he had 
done. He knew too well the archdeacon’s strength 
and his own weakness to suppose he could do this 
if they both reached London together. Indeed, he 
would never be able to get to London, if the archdea- 
con knew of his intended journey in time to prevent it. 

‘'No, I think not,” said he. “ I think I shall start 
before the archdeacon could be ready. I shall go 
early to-morrow morning.” 

“ That will be best, papa,” said Eleanor, showing 
that her father’s ruse was appreciated. 

“ Why, yes, my love. The. fact is, I wish to do all 
this before the archdeacon can, — can interfere. There 
is a great deal of truth in all he says. He argues very 
well, and I can’t always answer him ; but there is an 
old saying, Nelly; ‘Every one knows where his own 
shoe pinches! ’ He ’ll say that I want moral courage, 
and strength of character, and power of endurance, 
and it ’s all true ; but I ’m sure I ought not to remain 
here, if I have nothing better to put forward than a 
quibble. So, Nelly, we shall have to leave this pretty 
place.” 

Eleanor’s face brightened up, as she assured her 
father how cordially she agreed with him. 

“ True, my love,” said he, now again quite happy and 
at ease in his manner. “ What good to us is this place 
or all the money, if we are to be ill-spoken of ? ” 


THE warden’s decision. 1 59 

Oh, papa, I am so glad! ” 

“ My darling child. It did cost me a pang at first, 
Nelly, to think that you should lose your pretty draw- 
ing-room, and your ponies, and your garden. The 
garden will be the worst of all ; — but there is a garden 
at Crabtree, a very pretty garden.” 

Crabtree Parva was the name of the small living 
which Mr. Harding had held as a minor canon, and 
which still belonged to him. It was only worth some 
eighty pounds a year, and a small house and glebe, all 
of which were now handed over to Mr. Harding’s 
curate. But it was to Crabtree glebe that Mr. Hard- 
ing thought of retiring. This parish must not be mis- 
taken for that other living, Crabtree Canonicorum, as 
it is called. Crabtree Canonicorum is a very nice thing. 
There are only two hundred parishioners ; there are 
four hundred acres of glebe ; and the great and small 
tithes, which both go to the rector, are worth four hun- 
dred pounds a year more. Crabtree Canonicorum is 
in the gift of the dean and chapter, and is at this time 
possessed by the Honourable and Reverend Dr. Vesey 
Stanhope, who also fills the prebendal stall of Goose- 
gorge in Barchester Chapter, and holds the united rec- 
tory of Eiderdown and Stogpingum, or Stoke Pinquium, 
as it should be written. This is the same Dr. Vesey 
Stanhope, whose hospitable villa on the Lake of Como 
is so well known to the elite of English travellers, and 
whose collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to 
be unique. 

“Yes,” said the warden, musing, “there is a very 
pretty garden at Crabtree ; but I shall be sorry to dis- 
turb poor Smith.” Smith was the curate of Crabtree, 
a gentleman who was maintaining a wife and half a 


i6o 


THE WARDEN. 


dozen children on the income arising from his pro- 
fession. 

Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was 
concerned, she could leave her house and her ponies 
without a single regret. She was only so happy that 
he was going, — going where he would escape all this 
dreadful turmoil. 

“ But we will take the music, my dear.” 

And so they went on planning their future happi- 
ness, and plotting how they would arrange it all with- * 
dut the interposition of the archdeacon. At last they 
again became confidential, and then the warden did 
thank her for what she had done, and Eleanor, lying 
on her father’s shoulder, did find an opportunity to tell 
her secret. . And the father gave his blessing to his 
child, and said that the man whom she loved was hon- 
est, good, and kind-hearted, and right-thinking in the 
main ; — one who wanted only a good wife to put him 
quite upright ; — a man, my love,” he ended by saying, 

” to whom I firmly believe that I can trust my treasure 
with safety.” 

“ But what will Dr. Grantly say? ” 

“ Well, my dear, it can’t be helped. We shall be 
out at Crabtree then.” 

And Eleanor ran upstairs . to prepare her father’s 
clothes for his journey ; and the warden returned to 
his garden to make his last adieus to every tree, and 
shrub, and shady nook that he knew so well. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


MOUNT OLYMPUS. 

Wretched in spirit, groaning under the feeling of 
the insult, self-condemning, and ill-satisfied in every- 
way, Bold returned to his London lodgings. Ill as he 
had fared in his interview with the archdeacon, he was 
not the less under the necessity of carrying out his 
pledge to Eleanor ; and he went about his ungracious 
task with a heavy heart. 

The attorneys whom he had employed in London 
received his instructions with surprise and evident mis- 
giving ; however, they could only obey, and mutter 
something of their sorrow that such heavy costs should 
only fall upon their own employer, — especially as noth- 
ing was wanting but perseverance to throw them on the 
opposite party. Bold left the office which he had lat- 
terly so much frequented, shaking the dust from off his 
feet ; and before he was down the stairs, an edict had 
already gone forth for the preparation of the bill. 

He next thought of the newspapers. The case had 
been taken up by more than one ; and he was well 
aware that the key note had been sounded by the Ju- 
piter. He had been very intimate with Tom Towers, 
and had often discussed with him the affairs of the hos- 
pital. Bold could not say that the articles in that paper 
had been written at his own instigation. He did not 
u 


i 62 


THE WARDEN. 


even know as a fact that they had been written by his 
friend. Tom Towers had never said that such a view 
of . the case, or such a side in the dispute, would be 
taken by the paper with which he was connected. 
Very discreet in such matters was Tom Towers, and 
altogether indisposed to talk loosely of the concerns of 
that mighty engine of which it was his high privilege 
to move in secret some portion. Nevertheless Bold 
believed that to him were owing those dreadful words 
which had caused such panic at Barchester, — and he 
conceived himself bound to prevent their repetition. 
With this view he betook himself from the attorneys’ 
office to that laboratory where, with amazing chemistry, 
Tom Towers compounded thunderbolts for the de- 
struction of all that is evil, and for the furtherance of 
all that is good, in this and other hemispheres. 

Who has not heard of Mount Olympus, — that high 
abode of all the powers of type, that favoured seat of 
the great goddess Pica, that wondrous habitation of 
gods and devils, from whence, with ceaseless hum of 
steam and never-ending flow of Castalian ink, issue 
forth eighty thousand nightly edicts for the governance 
of a subject nation? 

Velvet and gilding do not make a throne, nor gold 
and jewels a sceptre. It is a throne because the most 
exalted one sits there ; — and a sceptre because the most 
mighty one wields it. So it is with Mount Olympus. 
Should a stranger make his way thither at dull noon- 
day, or during the sleepy hours of the silent afternoon, 
he would find no acknowledged temple of power and 
beauty, no fitting fane for the great Thunderer, no 
proud facades and pillared roofs to support the dignity 
of this greatest of earthly potentates. To the outward 


MOUNT OLYMPUS. 


163 


and uninitiated eye, Mount Olympus is a somewhat 
humble spot, — undistinguished, unadorned, — nay, al- 
most mean. It stands alone, as it were, in a mighty city, 
close to the densest throng of men, but partaking neither 
of the noise nor the crowd ; a small secluded, dreary 
spot, tenanted, one would say, by quite unambitious 
people, at the easiest rents. ‘ Is this Mount Olympus? ’ 
asks the unbelieving stranger. ‘ Is it from these small, 
‘ dark, dingy buildings that those infallible laws pro- 
‘ ceed which cabinets are called upon to obey ; by which 
‘ bishops are to be guided, lords and commons con- 
‘ trolled, — ^judges instructed in law, generals in strategy, 
‘admirals in naval tactics, and orange-women in the 
‘ management of their barrows?’ ‘Yes, my friend — 
‘ from these walls. From here issue the only known 
‘ infallible bulls for the guidance of British souls and 
‘bodies. This little court is the Vatican of England. 
‘ Here reigns a pope, self-nominated, self-consecrated, 
‘ — ay, and much stranger too, — self-believing! — a 
‘ pope whom, if you cannot obey him, I would advise 
‘ you to disobey as silently as possible ; a pope hith- 
‘ erto afraid of no Luther ; a pope who manages his 
‘ own inquisition, who punishes unbelievers as no most 
‘ skilful inquisitor of Spain ever dreamt of doing ; — one 
‘ who can excommunicate thoroughly, fearfully, radi- 
‘cally; put you beyond the pale of men’s charity; 

‘ make you odious to your dearest friends, and turn 
‘ you into a monster to be pointed at by the finger! ’ 

Oh heavens! and this is Mount Olympus! 

It is a fact amazing to ordinary mortals that the Ju- 
piter is never wrong. With what endless care, with 
what unsparing labour, do we not strive to get together 
for our great national council the men most fitting to 


164 


THE WARDEN. 


compose it. And how we fail ! Parliament is always 
wrong. Look at the Jupiter, and see how futile are 
their meetings, how vain their council, how needless 
all their trouble! With what pride do we regard our 
chief ministers, the great servants of state, the oligarchs 
of the nation on whose wisdom we lean, to whom we 
look for guidance in our difficulties! But what are 
they to the writers of the Jupiter? They hold council 
together and with anxious thought painfully elaborate 
their country’s good ; but when all is done, the Jupiter 
declares that all is nought. Why should we look to 
Lord John Russell ; — why should we regard Palmerston 
and Gladstone, when Tom Towers without a struggle 
can put us right? Look at our generals, what faults 
they make ; — at our admirals, how inactive they are. 
What money, honesty, and science can do, is done ; 
and yet how badly are our troops brought together, 
fed, conveyed, clothed, armed, and managed. The 
most excellent of our good men do their best to man 
our ships, with the assistance of all possible external 
appliances; but in vain. All, all is wrong! Alas! 
alas! Tom Towers, and he alone, knows all about it. 
Why, oh why, ye earthly ministers, why have ye not 
followed more closely this heaven-sent messenger that 
is among us? 

Were it not well for us in our ignorance that we 
confided all things to the Jupiter? Would it not be 
wise in us to abandon useless talking, idle thinking, and 
profitless labour? Away with majorities in the House 
of Commons, with verdicts from judicial bench given 
after much delay, with doubtful laws, and the fallible 
attempts of humanity 1 Does not the Jupiter, coming 
forth daily with eighty thousand impressions full of 


MOUNT OLYMPUS. 


165 

unerring decision on every mortal subject, set all mat- 
ters sufficiently at rest? Is not Tom Towers here, able 
to guide us and willing? 

Yes indeed, — able and willing to guide all men in all 
things, so long as he is obeyed as autocrat should be 
obeyed — with undoubting submission ! Only let not 
ungrateful ministers seek other colleagues than those 
whom Tom Towers may approve; let church and 
state, law and physic, commerce and agriculture, — the 
arts of war, and the arts of peace, all listen and obey, 
and all will be made perfect. Has not Tom Towers 
an all-seeing eye? From the diggings of Australia to 
those of California, right round the habitable globe, 
does he not know, watch, and chronicle the doings of 
every one? From a bishopric in New Zealand to an 
unfortunate director of a Northwest passage, is he not 
the only fit judge of capability? From the sewers of 
London to the Central Railway of India, — from the 
palaces of St. Petersburg to the cabins of Connaught, 
nothing can escape him. Britons have but to read, 
obey, and be blessed. None but the fools doubt the 
wisdom of the Jupiter. None but the mad dispute its 
facts. 

No established religion has ever been without its un- 
believers, even in the country where it is the most 
firmly fixed ; no creed has been without scoffers ; no 
church has so prospered as to free itself entirely from 
dissent. There are those who doubt the Jupiter! 
They live and breathe the upper air, walking here un- 
scathed, though scorned, — men, bom of British mothers 
and nursed on English milk, who scruple not to say 
that Mount Olympus has its price, that Tom Towers 
can be bought for gold!* 


i66 


THE WARDEN. 


Such is Mount Olympus, the mouthpiece of all the 
wisdom of this great country. It may probably be 
said that no place in this 19th century is more worthy 
of notice. No treasury mandate armed with the signa- 
tures of all the government has half the power of one 
of those broad sheets, which fly forth from hence so 
abundantly, armed with no signature a,t all. 

Some great man, some mighty peer, — we’ll say a 
noble duke, — retires to rest feared and honoured by all 
his countrymen, — fearless himself ; if not a good man, 
at any rate a mighty man, — too mighty to care much 
what men may say about his want of virtue. He rises 
in the morning degraded, mean, and miserable ; an ob- 
ject of men’s scorn, anxious only to retire as quickly 
as may be to some German obscurity, some unseen 
Italian privacy, or, indeed, anywhere out of sight. 
What has made this awful change? What has so af- 
flicted him? An article has appeared in the Jupiter; 
some fifty lines of a narrow column have destroyed all 
his grace’s equanimity, and banished him for ever from 
the world. N o man knows who wrote the bitter words ; 
the clubs talk confusedly of the matter, whispering to 
each other this and that name; while Tom Towers 
walks quietly along Pall Mall, with his coat buttoned 
close against the east wind, as though he were a mor- 
tal man, and not a god dispensing thunderbolts from 
Mount Olympus. 

It was not to Mount Olympus that our friend Bold 
betook himself. He had before now wandered round 
that lonely spot, thinking how grand a thing it was to 
write articles for the Jupiter; considering within him- 
self whether by any stretch of the powers ' within him 
he could ever come to such distinction ; wondering 


MOUNT OLYMPUS. 1 67 

how Tom Towers would take any little humble offer- 
ing of his talents ; calculating that Tom Towers him- 
self must have once had a beginning, have once doubted 
as to his own success. Towers could not have been 
bom a writer in the Jupiter. With such ideas, half 
ambitious and half awe-struck, had Bold regarded the 
silent-looking workshop of the gods ; but he had never 
yet by word or sign attempted to influence the slightest 
word of his unerring friend. On such a course was he 
now intent ; and not without much inward palpitation 
did he betake himself to the quiet abode of wisdom, 
where Tom Towers was to be found o’ mornings inhal- 
ing ambrosia and sipping nectar in the shape of toast 
and tea. 

Not far removed from Mount Olympus, but some- 
what nearer to the blessed regions of the West, is the 
most favoured abode of Themis. Washed by the rich 
tide which now passes from the towers of Caesar to 
Barry’s halls of eloquence ; and again back, with new 
offerings of a city’s tribute, from the palaces of peers 
to the mart of merchants, stand those quiet walls which 
Law has delighted to honour by its presence. What 
a world within a world is the Temple! how quiet are 
its entangled walks,” as some one lately has called 
them, and yet how close to the densest concourse of 
humanity! how gravely respectable its sober alleys, 
though removed but by a single step from the profanity 
of the Strand and the low iniquity of Fleet Street! 
Old St. Dunstan, with its bell-smiting bludgeoners, has 
been removed ; the ancient shops with their faces full 
of pleasant history are passing away one by one ; the 
bar itself is to go ; its doom has been pronounced by 
the Jupiter; rumour tells us of some huge building 


i68 


THE WARDEN. 


that is to appear in these latitudes dedicated to law, 
subversive of the courts of Westminster, and antago- 
nistic to the Rolls and Lincoln’s Inn. But nothing 
yet threatens the silent beauty of the Temple. It is 
the mediaeval court of the metropolis. 

Here, on the choicest spot of this choice ground, 
stands a lofty row of chambers, looking obliquely upon 
the sullied Thames. Before the windows, the lawn of 
the Temple Gardens stretches with that dim yet deli- 
cious verdure so refreshing to the eyes of I.ondoners. 
If doomed to live within the thickest of London smoke 
you would surely say that that would be your chosen 
spot. Yes, you, you whom I now address, my dear, 
middle-aged bachelor friend, can nowhere be so well 
domiciled as here. No one here will ask whether you 
are out or at home ; alone or with friends. Here no 
Sabbatarian will investigate your Sundays, no censori- 
ous landlady will scrutinise your empty bottle, no vale- 
tudinarian neighbour will complain of late hours. If 
you love books, to what place are books so suitable? 
The whole spot is redolent of typography. Would you 
worship the Paphian goddess, the groves of Cyprus are 
not more taciturn than those of the Temple. Wit 
and wine are always here, and always together. The 
revels of the Temple are as those of polished Greece, 
where the wildest worshipper of Bacchus never forgot 
the dignity of the god whom he adored. Where can 
retirement be so complete as here? Where can you 
be so sure of all the pleasures of society? 

It was here that Tom Towers lived, and cultivated 
with eminent success the tenth Muse who now governs 
the periodical press. But let it not be supposed that 
his chambers were such, or so comfortless, as are 


MOUNT OLYMPUS. 


x6$ 

frequently the gaunt abodes of legal aspirants. Four 
chairs, a half-filled deal book- case with hangings of 
dingy green baize, an old office table covered with dusty 
papers, which are not moved once in six months, and 
an old Pembroke brother with rickety legs, for all daily 
uses ; — a despatcher for the preparation of lobsters and 
coffee, and an apparatus for the cooking of toast and 
mutton chops ; such utensils and luxuries as these did 
not suffice for the well-being of Tom Towers. He in- 
dulged in four rooms on the first floor, each of which 
was furnished, if not with the splendour, with probably 
more than the comfort of Stafford House. Every ad- 
dition that science and art have lately made to the 
luxuries of modern life was to be found there. The 
room in which he usually sat was surrounded by book- 
shelves carefully filled ; nor was there a volume there 
which was not entitled to its place in such a collection, 
both by its intrinsic worth and exterior splendour. A 
pretty portable set of steps in one corner of the room 
showed that those even on the higher shelves were in- 
tended for use. The chamber contained but two works 
of art ; — the one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, 
by Power, declared the individual politics of our friend ; 
and the other, a singularly long figure of a female dev- 
otee, by Millais, told equally plainly the school of art 
to which he was addicted. This picture was not hung, 
as pictures usually are, against the wall. There was 
no inch of wall vacant for such a purpose. It had a 
stand or desk erected for its own accommodation ; and 
there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stood the 
devotional lady looking intently at a lily as no lady 
ever looked before. 

Our modern artists, whom we style Prae-Raffaellites, 


1)0 


THE WARDEN. 


have delighted to go back, not only to the finish and 
peculiar manner, but also to the subjects of the early 
painters. It is impossible to give them too much 
praise for the elaborate perseverance with which they 
have equalled the minute perfections of the masters 
from whom they take their inspiration. Nothing prob- 
ably can exceed the painting of some of these latter- 
day pictures. It is, however, singular into what faults 
they fall as regards their subjects. They are not quite 
content to take the old stock groups, — a Sebastian 
with his arrows, a Lucia with her eyes in a dish, a 
Lorenzo with a gridiron, or the virgin with two chil- 
dren. But they are anything but happy in their change. 
As a rule, no figure should be drawn in a position which 
it is impossible to suppose any figure should maintain. 
The patient endurance of St. Sebastian, the wild ecstasy 
of St. John in the Wilderness, the maternal love of the 
virgin, are feelings naturally portrayed by a fixed pos- 
ture ; but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, 
who looks at her flower, and is still looking from hour 
to hour, gives us an idea of pain without grace, and ab- 
straction without a cause. 

It was easy, from his rooms, to see that Tom Tow- 
ers was a Sybarite, though by no means an idle one. 
He was lingering over his last cup of tea, surrounded 
by an ocean of newspapers, through which he had been 
swimming, when John Bold’s card was brought in by 
his tiger. This tiger never knew that his master was 
at home, though he often knew that he was not, and 
thus Tom Towers was never invaded but by his own 
consent. On this occasion, after twisting the card 
twice in his fingers, he signified to his attendant imp 


MOUNT OLYMPUS. 


171 

that he was visible ; and the inner door was unbolted, 
and our friend announced. 

I have before said that he of the Jupiter and John 
Bold were intimate. There was no very great difference 
in their ages, for Towers was still considerably under 
forty ; and when Bold had been attending the London 
hospitals. Towers, who was not then the great man 
that he had since become, had been much with him. 
Then they had often discussed together the objects of 
their ambition and future prospects. Then Tom Tow- 
ers was struggling hard to maintain himself, as a brief- 
less barrister, by short-hand reporting for any of the 
papers that would engage him ; then he had not dared 
to dream of writing leaders for the Jupiter, or canvas- 
sing the conduct of Cabinet ministers. Things had 
altered since that time. The briefless barrister was still 
briefless, but he now despised briefs. Could he have 
been sure of a judge’s seat, he would hardly have left 
his present career. It is true he wore no ermine, bore 
no outward marks of a world’s respect ; but with what 
a load of inward importance was he charged! It is 
true his name appeared in no large capitals; on no 
wall was chalked up “ Tom Towers for ever Free- 
dom of the Press and Tom Towers;” but what mem- 
ber of Parliament had half his power? It is true that 
in far-off provinces men did not talk daily of Tom 
Towers, but they read the Jupiter, and acknowledged 
that without the Jupiter life was not wortli having. 
This kind of hidden but still conscious glory suited the 
nature of the man. He loved to sit silent in a corner 
of his club and listen to the loud chattering of politi- 
cians, and to think how they all were in his power; — 


172 


THE WARDEN. 


how he could smite the loudest of them, were it worth 
his while to raise his pen for such a purpose. He 
loved to watch the great men of whom he daily wrote, 
and flatter himself that he was greater than any of 
them. Each of them was responsible to his country, 
each of them must answer if inquired into, each of 
them must endure abuse with good humour, and inso- 
lence without anger. But to whom was he, Tom Tow- 
ers, responsible? No one could insult him; no one 
could inquire into him. He could speak out wither- 
ing words, and no one could answer him. Ministers 
courted him, though perhaps they knew not his name ; 
bishops feared him ; judges doubted their own verdicts 
unless he confirmed them ; and generals, in their coun- 
cils of war, did not consider more deeply what the 
enemy would do, than what the Jupiter would say. 
Tom Towers never boasted of the Jupiter; he scarcely 
ever named the paper even to the most intimate of his 
friends ; he did not even wish to be spoken of as con- 
nected with it ; but he did not the less value his priv- 
ileges, or think the less of his own importance. It is 
probable that Tom Towers considered himself the most 
powerful man in Europe ; and so he walked on from 
day to day, studiously striving to look a man, but know- 
ing within his breast that he was a god. 


CHAPTER XV. 


TOM TOWERS, DR. ANTICANT, AND MR. SENTIMENT. 

“Ah, Bold! how are you? You have n’t break- 
fasted? ” 

“ Oh yes, hours ago. And how are you? ” 

When one Esquimau meets another, do the two, as 
an invariable rule, ask after each other’s health? Is 
it inherent in all human nature to make this obliging 
inquiry? Did any reader of this tale ever meet any 
friend or acquaintance without asking some such 
question, and did any one ever listen to the reply? 
Sometimes a studiously courteous questioner will show 
so much thought in the matter as to answer it himself, 
by declaring that had he looked at you he need n’t 
have asked ; meaning thereby to signify that you are 
an absolute personification of health. But such per- 
sons are only those who premeditate small effects. 

“ I suppose you ’re busy? ” inquired Bold. 

“ Why, yes, rather ; — or I should say rather not. If 
I have a leisure hour in the day, this is it.” 

“ I want to ask you if you can oblige me in a cer- 
tain matter.” 

Towers understood in a moment, from the tone of 
his friend’s voice, that the certain matter referred to 
the newspaper. He smiled, and nodded his head, but 
made no promise. 


174 


THE WARDEN. 


You know this lawsuit that I Ve been engaged in,” 
said Bold. 

Tom Towers intimated that he was aware of the 
action which was pending about the hospital 

“Well, I Ve abandoned it.” 

Tom Towers merely raised his eyebrows, thrust his 
hands into his trousers’ pockets, and waited for his 
friend to proceed. 

“ Yes, I ’ve given it up. I need n’t trouble you with 
all the history ; but the fact is that the conduct of Mr. 
Harding — . Mr. Harding is the .” 

“Oh yes, the master of the place; the man who 
takes all the money and does nothing,” said Tom Tow- 
ers, interrupting him. 

“Well; I don’t know about that; but his conduct 
in the matter has been so excellent, so little selfish, so 
open, that I cannot proceed in the matter to his detri- 
ment.” Bold’s heart misgave him as to Eleanor as he 
said this ; and yet he felt that what he said was not 
untrue. “ I think nothing should now be done till the 
wardenship be vacant.” 

“ And be again filled,” said Towers, “ as it certainly 
would, before any one heard of the vacancy ; and the 
same objection would again exist. It ’s an old story 
that of the vested rights of the incumbent ; but sup- 
pose the incumbent has only a vested wrong, and that 
the poor of the town have a vested right, if they only 
knew hov/ to get at it! Is not that something the case 
here? ” 

Bold could not deny it, but thought it was one of 
those cases which required a good deal of management 
before any real good could be done. It was a pity 
that he had not considered this before he crept into the 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 1 75 

lion’s mouth, in the shape of an attorney’s office. “ It 
will cost you a good deal, I fear,” said Towers. 

A few hundreds,” said Bold — “ perhaps three hun- 
dred. I can’t help that, and am prepared for it.” 

“ That ’s philosophical. It ’s quite refreshing to hear 
a man talking of his hundreds in so purely indifferent 
a manner. But I ’m sorry you are giving the matter 
up. It injures a man to commence a thing of this 
kind, and not carry it through. Have you seen that? ” 
and he threw a small pamphlet across the table, which 
was all but damp from the press. 

Bold had not seen it nor heard of it ; but he was well 
acquainted with the author of it, — a gentleman whose 
pamphlets, condemnatory of all things in these modern 
days, had been a good deal talked about of late. 

Dr. Pessimist Anticant was a Scotchman who had 
passed a great portion of his early days in Germany ; 
he had studied there with much effect, and had learnt 
to look with German subtilty into the root of things, 
and to examine for himself their intrinsic worth and 
worthlessness. No man ever resolved more bravely 
than he to accept as good nothing that was evil ; to 
banish from him as evil nothing that was good. ’T is 
a pity that he should not have recognised the fact, 
that in this world no good is unalloyed, and that there 
is but little evil that has not in it some seed of what is 
goodly. 

Returning from Germany, he had astonished the 
reading public by the vigour of his thoughts, put forth 
in the quaintest language. He cannot write English, 
said the critics. No matter, said the public. We can 
read what he does write, and that without yawning. 
And so Dr. Pessimist Anticant became popular. Pop- 


176 


THE WARDEN. 


ularity spoilt him for all further real use, as it has done 
many another. While, with some diffidence, he con- 
fined his objurgations to the occasional follies or short- 
comings of mankind ; while he ridiculed the energy of 
the squire devoted to the slaughter of partridges, or the 
mistake of some noble patron who turned a poet into 
a gauger of beer-barrels, it was all well. We were glad 
to be told our faults and to look forward to the coming 
millennium, when all men, having sufficiently studied 
the works of Dr. Anticant, would become truthful and 
energetic. But the doctor mistook the signs of the 
times and the minds of men, instituted himself censor 
of things in general, and began the great task of rep- 
robating everything and everybody, without further 
promise of any millennium at all. This was not so 
well ; and, to tell the truth, our author did not succeed 
in his undertaking. His theories were all beautiful, 
and the code of morals that he taught us was certainly 
an improvement on the practices of the age. We all 
of us could, and many of us did, learn much from the 
doctor while he chose to remain vague, mysterious, and 
cloudy. But when he became practical, the charm was 
gone. 

His allusion to the poet and the partridges was re- 
ceived very well. ' Oh, my poor brother,’ said he, 
‘ slaughtered partridges a score of brace to each gun, 
'and poets gauging ale-barrels, with sixty pounds a 
'year, at Dumfries, are not the signs of a great era! — 
'perhaps of the smallest possible era yet written of. 
' Whatever economies we pursue, political or other, let 
' us see at once that this is the maddest of the uneco- 
'nomic. Partridges killed by our land magnates at, 
' shall we say, a guinea a head, to be retailed in Lead- 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 


^77 


‘ enhall at one shilling and ninepence, with one poacher 
‘ in limbo for every fifty birds ! our poet, maker, crea- 
‘ tor, gauging ale, and that badly, with no leisure for 
‘ making or creating ; — only a little leisure for drinking, 
‘ and such like beer-barrel avocations ! Truly, a cutting 
' of blocks with fine razors while we scrape our chins 
‘ so uncomfortably with rusty knives ! Oh, my political 
^ economist, master of supply and demand, division of 
‘labour and high pressure, — oh, my loud-speaking 
‘ friend, tell me, if so much be in you, what is the de- 
‘ mand for poets in these kingdoms of Queen Victoria, 
‘ and what the vouchsafed supply ? ’ 

This was all very well. This gave us some hope. 
We might do better with our next poet, when we got 
one; and though the partridges might not be aban- 
doned, something could perhaps be done as to the 
poachers. We were unwilling, however, to take lessons 
in politics from so misty a professor; and when he 
came to tell us that the heroes of Westminster were 
naught, we began to think that he had written enough. 
His attack upon despatch boxes v/as not thought to 
have much in it ; but as it is short, the doctor shall 
again be allowed to speak his sentiments. 

‘ Could utmost ingenuity in the management of red 
‘ tape avail anything to men lying gasping, — we may 
‘ say, all but dead ; could despatch boxes with never- 
‘ so-much velvet lining and Chubb’s patent be of com- 
‘fort to a people in extremis,-! also, with so many 
‘ others, would, with parched tongue, call on the name 
‘ of Lord J ohn Russell ; or, my brother, at your advice, 

‘ on Lord Aberdeen ; or, my cousin, on Lord Derby, 

‘ at yours ; being, with my parched tongue, indifferent 
‘to such matters. ’T is all one. Oh, Derby! Oh, 


12 


178 


THE WARDEN. 


‘Gladstone! Oh, Palmerston I Oh, Lord John! Each 
‘comes running with serene face and despatch box. 
‘Vain physicians! Though there were hosts of such, 
‘no despatch box will cure this disorder! What! are 
‘ there other doctors’ new names, disciples who have 
'not yet burdened their souls with tape? Well, let us 
‘ call again. Oh Disraeli, great oppositionist, man of 
‘the bitter brow! or. Oh, Molesworth, great reformer, 
‘ thou who promisest Utopia. They come ; each with 
‘ that serene face, and each, — alas, me ! alas, my coun- 
‘ try ! — each with a despatch box ! 

‘Oh, the serenity of Downing Street! 

‘ My brothers, when hope was over on the battle 
‘ field, when no dimmest chance of victory remained, 
‘ the ancient Roman could hide his face within his toga, 
‘and die gracefully. Can you and I do so now? If 
‘ so, ’t were best for us. If not, oh my brothers, we 
‘ must die disgracefully, for hope of life and victory 
‘ I see none left to us in this world below. I for 
‘one cannot trust much to serene face and despatch 
‘ box ! ’ 

There might be truth in this, there might be depth 
of reasoning; but Englishmen did not see enough in 
the argument to induce them to withdraw their confi- 
dence from the present arrangements of the govern- 
ment, and Dr. Anticant’s monthly pamphlet on the 
decay of the world did not receive so much attention 
as his earlier works. He did not confine himself to 
politics in these publications, but roamed at large over 
all matters of public interest, and found everything bad. 
According to him nobody was true, and not only no- 
body, but nothing. A man could not take off his hat 
to a lady without telling a lie. The lady would lie 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 


179 


again in smiling. The ruffles of the gentleman’s shirt 
would be fraught with deceit, and the lady’s flounces 
full of falsehood. Was ever anything more severe than 
that attack of his on chip bonnets, or the anathemas 
with which he endeavoured to dust the powder out of 
the bishops’ wigs? 

The pamphlet which Tom Towers now pushed 
across the table was entitled Modern Charity,” and 
was written with the view of proving how much in the 
way of charity was done by our predecessors; — how 
little by the present age ; and it ended by a compari- 
son between ancient and modem times, very little to 
the credit of the latter. 

“ Look at this,” said Towers, getting up and turning 
over the pages of the pamphlet, and pointing to a pas- 
sage near the end. “Your friend the warden, who is 
so little selfish, won’t like that, I fear.” Bold read as 
^follows : — 

‘ Heavens, what a sight ! Let us with eyes wide 
* open see the godly man of four centuries since, the 
^man of the dark ages; — let us see how he does his 
^ godlike work, and, again, how the godly man of these 
‘ latter days does his. 

' Shall we say that the former one is walking pain- 
‘ fully through the world, regarding, as a prudent man, 
‘his worldly work, prospering in it as a diligent man 
‘will prosper, but always with an eye to that better 
‘treasure to which thieves do not creep in? Is there 
‘ not much nobility in that old man, as, leaning on his 
‘ oaken staff, he walks down the high street of his native 
‘ town, and receives from all courteous salutation and 
‘ acknowledgment of his worth? A noble old man, my 
‘ august inhabitants of Belgrave Square and such like 


THE WARDEN, 


I So 

* vicinity, — a very noble old man, though employed no 

* better than in the wholesale carding of wool. 

* This carding of wool, however, did in those days 
‘bring with it much profit, so that our ancient friend, 
‘when dying, was declared, in whatever slang then 
‘prevailed, to cut up exceeding well. For sons and 
‘ daughters there was ample sustenance, with assistance 
‘ of due industry ; for friends and relatives some relief 
‘ for grief at this great loss ; — for aged dependants com- 
‘ fort in declining years. This was much for one old 
‘ man to get done in that dark fifteenth century. But 
‘ this was not all. Coming generations of poor wool- 
‘ carders should bless the name of this rich one ; and 
‘ a hospital should be founded and endowed with his 
‘wealth for the feeding of such of the trade as could 
‘ not, by diligent carding, any longer duly feed them- 
‘ selves. 

‘ 'T was thus that an old man in the fifteenth cent- 
" ury did his godlike work to the best of his power, 
‘ and not ignobly, as appears to me. 

‘ We will now take our godly man of latter days. 
‘ He shall no longer be a wool-carder, for such are not 
‘ now men of mark. We will suppose him to be one 
‘of the best of the good, — one who has lacked no 
‘ opportunities. Our old friend was, after all, but illit- 
‘erate. Our modern friend shall be a man educated 
‘ in all seemly knowledge ; he shall, in short, be that 
‘ blessed being, — a clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
‘land! 

‘ And now, in what perfectest manner does he in this 
‘ lower world get his godlike work done and put out of 
‘hand? Heavens! in the strangest of manners. Oh, 
‘ my brother! in a manner not at all to be believed but 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. l8l 

‘by the most minute testimony of eyesight. He does 
‘ it by the magnitude of his appetite, — by the power of 
‘his gorge! His only occupation is to swallow the 
‘ bread prepared with so much anxious care for these 
‘ impoverished carders of wool, — that, and to sing in- 
‘ differently through his nose once in the week some 
‘ psalm more or less long, — the shorter the better, we 
‘ should be inclined to say. 

‘Oh, my civilised friends! — great Britons that never 
‘ will be slaves, — men advanced to infinite state of free- 
‘ dom and knowledge of good and evil ; tell me, will 
‘ you, what becoming monument you will erect to an 
‘ highly educated clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
‘ land? ’ 

Bold certainly thought that his friend would not like 
that. He could not conceive anything that he would 
like less than this. To what a world of toil and trouble 
had he. Bold, given rise by his indiscreet attack upon 
the hospital! 

“You see,” said Towers, “that this affair has been 
much talked of, and the public are with you. I am 
sorry you should give the matter up. Have you seen 
the first number of the ‘Almshouse? ’ ” 

No ; Bold had not seen the “ Almshouse.” He had 
seen advertisements of Mr. Popular Sentiment’s new 
novel of that name, but had in no way connected it 
with Barchester Hospital, and had never thought a mo- 
ment on the subject. 

“ It ’s a direct attack on the whole system,” said 
Towers. “ It ’ll go a long way to put down Roches- 
ter, and Barchester, and Dulwich, and St. Cross, and 
all such hotbeds of peculation. It’s very clear that 
Sentiment has been down to Barchester, and got up the 


i 82 


THE WARDEN. 


whole Story there. Indeed, I thought he must have 
had it all from you. It ’s very well done, as you ’ll 
see. His first numbers always are.” 

Bold declared that Mr. Sentiment had got nothing 
from him, and that he was deeply grieved to find that 
the case had become so notorious. ‘'The fire has 
gone too far to be quenched,” said Towers; “the 
building must go now ; and as the timbers are all rot- 
ten, why, I should be inclined to say, the sooner the 
better. I expected to see you get some eclat in the 
matter.” 

This was all wormwood to Bold. He had done 
enough to make his friend the warden miserable for 
life, and had then backed out just when the success of 
his project was sufficient to make the question one of 
real interest. How weakly he had managed his busi- 
ness! He had already done the harm, and then stayed 
his hand when the good which he had in view was to 
be commenced. How delightful would it have been 
to have employed all his energy in such a cause, — to 
have been backed by the Jupiter, and written up to 
by two of the most popular authors of the day ! The 
idea opened a vista into the very world in which he 
wished to live. To what might it not have given rise? 
what delightful intimacies, — what public praise, — to 
what Athenian banquets and rich flavoui of Attic salt? 

This, however, was now past hope. He had pledged 
himself to abandon the cause ; and could he have for- 
gotten the pledge, he had gone too far to retreat. He 
was now, this moment, sitting in Tom Towers’ room 
with the object of deprecating any further articles in 
the Jupiter, and, greatly as he disliked the job, his pe- 
tition to that effect must be made. 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 1 83 

** I could n’t continue it,” said he, because I found 
I was in the wrong.” 

Tom Towers shrugged his shoulders. How could 
a successful man be in the wrong! "‘In that case,” 
said he, of course you must abandon it.” 

“ And I called this morning to ask you also to aban- 
don it,” said Bold. 

'‘To ask me,” said Tom Towers with the most placid 
of smiles, and a consummate look of gentle surprise, 
as though Tom Towers was well aware that he of all 
men was the last to meddle in such matters. 

“Yes,” said Bold, almost trembling with hesitation. 
“ The Jupiter, you know, has taken the matter up very 
strongly. Mr. Harding has felt what it has said deeply ; 
and I thought that if I could explain to you that he 
personally has not been to blame, these articles might 
be discontinued.” 

How calmly impassive was Tom Towers’ face, as 
this innocent little proposition was made! Had Bold 
addressed himself to the doorposts in Mount Olympus, 
they would have shown as much outward sign of as- 
sent or dissent. His quiescence was quite admirable. 
His discretion certainly more than human. 

“ My dear fellow,” said he, when Bold had quite done 
speaking, “ I really cannot answer for the Jupiter.” 

“ But if you saw that these articles were unjust, I 
think that you would endeavour to put a stop to them. 
Of course nobody doubts that you could, if you 
chose.” 

“ Nobody and everybody are always very kind, but 
unfortunately are generally very wrong.” 

“ Come, come. Towers,” said Bold, plucking up his 
courage, and remembering that for Eleanor’s sake he 


184 


THE WARDEN. 


was bound to make his best exertion; ^'1 have no 
doubt in my own mind but that you wrote the articles 
yourself. And very well written they were. It will 
be a great favour if you will in future abstain from any 
personal allusion to poor Harding.” 

“ My dear Bold,” said Tom Towers, “ I have a sin- 
cere regard for you. I have known you for many 
years, and value your friendship. I hope you will let 
me explain to you, without offence, that none who are 
connected with the public press can with propriety 
listen to interference.” 

Interference ! ” said Bold, “ I don’t want to inter- 
fere.” 

“Ah, my dear fellow, but you do. What else is it? 
You think that I am able to keep certain remarks out 
of a newspaper. Your information is probably incor- 
rect, as most public gossip on such subjects is ; but, at 
any rate, you think I have such power ; and you ask 
me to use it. Now that is interference.” 

“Well, if you choose to call it so.” 

“ And now suppose for a moment that I had this 
power, and used it as you wish. Is n’t it clear that it 
would be a great abuse? Certain men are employed 
in writing for the public press ; and if they are induced 
either to write or to abstain from writing by private 
motives, surely the public press would soon be of little 
value. Look at the recognised worth of different news- 
papers, and see if it does not mainly depend on the 
assurance which the public feel that such a paper is, 
or is not, independent. You alluded to the Jupiter. 
Surely you cannot but see that the weight of the Ju- 
piter is too great to be moved by any private request, 
even though it should be made to a much more influ* 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 185 

ential person than myself. You Ve only to think of 
this, and you ’ll see that I am right.” 

The discretion of Tom Towers was boundless. 
There was no contradicting what he said, no arguing 
against such propositions. He took such high ground 
that there was no getting up on to it. “ The public is 
defrauded,” said he, whenever private considerations 
are allowed to have weight.” Quite true, thou great- 
est oracle of the middle of the nineteenth century ; 
thou sententious proclaimer of the purity of the press. 
The public is defrauded when it is purposely misled. 
Poor public! How often is it misled! Against what 
a world of fraud has it to contend! 

Bold took his leave, and got out of the room as 
quickly as he could, inwardly denouncing his friend 
Tom Towers as a prig and a humbug. ‘ I know he 
wrote those articles,’ said Bold to himself. ‘ I know 
‘he got his information from me. He was ready 
‘ enough to take my word for gospel when it suited his 
‘own views, and to set Mr. Harding up before the 
‘ public as an impostor on no other testimony than my 
‘ chance conversation ; but when I offer him real evi- 
‘ dence opposed to his own views, he tells me that pri- 
‘vate motives are detrimental to public justice! Con- 
‘ found his arrogance! What is any public question 
‘ but a conglomeration of private interests ? What is 
‘ any newspaper article but an expression of the views 
‘ taken by one side ? Truth ! It takes an age to ascer- 
‘tain the truth of any question! The idea of Tom 
‘ Towers talking of public motives and purity of pur- 
‘ pose ! Why ; it would n’t give him a moment’s un- 
‘ easiness to change his politics to-morrow, if the paper 
‘ required it.’ 


i86 


THE WARDEN. 


Such were John Bold’s inward exclamations as he 
made his way out of the quiet labyrinth of the Temple. 
And yet there was no position of worldly power so 
coveted in Bold’s ambition as that held by the man of 
whom he was thinking. It was the impregnability of 
the place which made Bold so angry with the pos- 
sessor of it, and it was the same quality which made 
it appear so desirable. 

Passing into the Strand, he saw in a bookseller’s 
window an announcement of the first number of the 
“Almshouse;” so he purchased a copy, and hurrying 
back to his lodgings, proceeded to ascertain what Mr. 
Popular Sentiment had to say to the public on the 
subject which had lately occupied so much of his own 
attention. 

In former times great objects were attained by great 
work. When evils were to be reformed, reformers set 
about their heavy task with grave decorum and labo- 
rious argument. An age was occupied in proving a 
grievance, and philosophical researches were printed 
in folio pages, which it took a life to write, and an 
eternity to read. We get on now with a lighter step, 
and quicker. “ Ridiculum acri Fortius et melius mag- 
nas plerumque secat res.” Ridicule is found to be 
more convincing than argument, imaginary agonies 
touch more than true sorrows, and monthly novels con- 
vince, when learned quartos fail to do so. If the 
world is to be set right, the work will be done by shil- 
ling numbers. 

Of all such reformers Mr. Sentiment is the most 
powerful. It is incredible the number of evil practices 
he has put down. It is to be feared he will soon lack 
subjects, and that when he has made the working classes 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 187 

comfortable, and got bitter beer put into proper-sized 
pint bottles, there will be nothing left for him to do. 
Mr. Sentiment is certainly a very powerful man, and 
perhaps not the less so that his good poor people are 
so very good ; his hard rich people so very hard ; and 
the genuinely honest so very honest. Namby-pamby 
in these days is not thrown away if it be introduced in 
the proper quarters. Divine peeresses are no longer 
interesting, though possessed of every virtue; but a 
pattern peasant or an immaculate manufacturing hero 
may talk as much twaddle as one of Mrs. Ratcliffe’s 
heroines, and still be listened to. Perhaps, however, 
Mr. Sentiment’s great attraction is in his second-rate 
characters. If his heroes and heroines walk upon stilts, 
as heroes and heroines, I fear, ever must, their attend- 
ant satellites are as natural as though one met them 
in the street. They walk and talk like men and women, 
and live among our friends a rattling, lively life ; yes, 
live, and will live till the names of their calling shall 
be forgotten in their own, and Buckett and Mrs. Gamp 
will be the only words left to us to signify a detective 
police officer or a monthly nurse. 

The “’Almshouse ” opened with a scene in a clergy- 
man’s house. Every luxury to be purchased by wealth 
was described as being there. All the appearances of 
household indulgence generally found amongst the 
most self-indulgent of the rich were crowded into this 
abode. Here the reader was introduced to the demon 
of the book, the Mephistopheles of the drama. What 
story was ever written without a demon ? What novel, 
what history, what work of any sort, what world, would 
be perfect without existing principles both of good and 
evil? The demon of the “Almshouse” was the cler- 


1 88 


THE WARDEN. 


ical owner of this comfortable abode. He was a man 
well stricken in years, but still strong to do evil. He 
was one who looked cruelly out of a hot, passionate, 
bloodshot eye ; who had a huge red nose with a car- 
buncle, thick lips, and a great double, flabby chin, 
which swelled out into solid substance, like a turkey 
cock’s comb, when sudden anger inspired him. He 
had a hot, furrowed, low brow, from which a few 
grizzled hairs were not yet rubbed off by the friction 
of his handkerchief. He wore a loose unstarched 
white handkerchief, black, loose, ill-made clothes, and 
huge loose shoes, adapted to many corns and various 
bunions. His husky voice told tales of much daily 
port wine, and his language was not so decorous as 
became a clergyman. Such was the master of Mr. 
Sentiment’s “Almshouse.” He was a widower, but at 
present accompanied by two daughters, and a thin and 
somewhat insipid curate. One of the young ladies 
was devoted to her father and the fashionable world, 
and she of course was the favourite. The other was 
equally addicted to Puseyism and the curate. 

The second chapter of course introduced the reader 
to the more especial inmates of the hospital. Here 
were discovered eight old men ; and it was given to 
be understood that four vacancies remained unfilled, 
through the perverse ill-nature of the clerical gentle- 
man with the double chin. The state of these eight 
paupers was touchingly dreadful. Sixpence-farthing 
a day had been sufficient for their diet when the alms- 
house was founded ; and on sixpence-farthing a day 
were they still doomed to starve, though food was four 
times as dear, and money four times as plentiful. It 
was shocking to find how the conversation of these 


TOM TOWERS AND OTHERS. 1 89 

eight starved old men in their dormitory shamed that 
of the clergyman’s family in his rich drawing-room. 
The absolute words they uttered were not perhaps 
spoken in the purest English, and it might be difficult 
to distinguish from their dialect to what part of the 
country they belonged. The beauty of the sentiment, 
however, amply atoned for the imperfection of the 
language ; and it was really a pity that these eight old 
men could not be sent through the country as moral 
missionaries, instead of being immured and starved in 
that wretched alms-house. 

Bold finished the number ; and as he threw it aside, 
he thought that that at least had no direct appliance to 
Mr. Harding, and that the absurdly strong colouring 
of the picture would disenable the work from doing 
either good or harm. He was wrong. The artist who 
paints for the million must use glaring colours, as no 
one knew better than Mr. Sentiment when he described 
the inhabitants of his alms-house ; and the radical re- 
form which has now swept over such establishments 
has owed more to the twenty numbers of Mr. Senti- 
ment’s novel, than to all the true complaints which 
have escaped from the public for the last half century. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 

The warden had to make use of all his very moder- 
ate powers of intrigue to give his son-in-law the slip, 
and get out of Barchester without being stopped on 
his road. No schoolboy ever ran away from school 
with more precaution and more dread of detection ; 
no convict slipping down from a prison wall ever feared 
to see the gaoler more entirely than Mr. Harding did 
to see his son-in-law, as he drove up in the pony car- 
riage to the railway station, on the morning of his es- 
cape to London. It was mean all this, and he knew 
that it was mean ; but, for the life of him, he could 
not help it. Had he met the archdeacon he certainly 
would have lacked the courage to explain the purpose 
which was carrying him up to London ; — to explain it 
in full. 

The evening before he went, however, he wrote a 
note to the archdeacon, explaining something. He 
said that he should start on the morrow on his journey ; 
that it was his intention to see the attorney-general if 
possible, and to decide on his future plans in accord- 
ance with what he heard from that gentleman ; he ex- 
cused himself for giving Dr. Grantly no earlier notice, 
by stating that his resolve was very sudden ; and hav- 
ing entrusted this note to Eleanor, with the perfect, 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. I9I 

though not expressed, understanding that it was to be 
sent over to Plumstead Episcopi without haste, he took 
his departure. 

He also prepared and carried with him a note for 
Sir Abraham Haphazard, in which he stated his name, 
explaining that he was the defendant in the case of 
“ The Queen on behalf of the Wool-carders of Bar- 
chester v. Trustees under the will of the late John 
Hiram,” for so was the suit denominated, and begged 
the illustrious and learned gentleman to vouchsafe to 
him ten minutes’ audience at any hour on the next 
day. Mr. Harding calculated that for that one day he 
was safe ; his son-in-law, he had no doubt, would ar- 
rive in town by an early train, but not early enough to 
reach the truant till he should have escaped from his 
hotel after breakfast ; and, could he thus manage to 
see the lawyer on that very day, the deed might be 
done before the archdeacon could interfere. 

On his arrival in town the warden drove, as was his 
wont, to the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House, near 
St. Paul’s. His visits to London of late had not been 
frequent ; but in those happy days when Harding’s 
Church Music was going through the press, he had 
been often there ; and as the publisher’s house was in 
Paternoster Row, and the printer’s press in Fleet Street, 
the Chapter Hotel and Coffee House had been con- 
venient. It was a quiet, sombre, clerical house, be- 
seeming such a man as the warden, and thus he after- 
wards frequented it. Had he dared, he would on this 
occasion have gone elsewhere to throw the archdeacon 
further off the scent ; but he did not know what violent 
steps his son-in-law might take for his recovery if he 
were not found at his usual haunt, and he deemed it 


THE WARDEN. 


192 

not prudent to make himself the object of a hunt 
through London. 

Arrived at his inn, he ordered dinner, and went forth 
to the attorney-general’s chambers. There he learnt 
that Sir Abraham was in Court, and would not proba- 
bly return that day. He would go direct from Court 
to the House ; all appointments were, as a rule, made 
at the chambers ; the clerk could by no means promise 
an interview for the next day ; was able, on the other 
hand, to say that such interview was, he thought, im- 
possible ; but that Sir Abraham would certainly be at 
the House in the course of the night, where an answer 
from himself might possibly be elicited. 

To the House Mr, Harding went, and left his note, 
not finding Sir Abraham there. He added a most 
piteous entreaty that he might be favoured with an 
answer that evening, for which he would return. He 
then journeyed back sadly to the Chapter Coffee 
House, digesting his great thoughts, as best he might, 
in a clattering omnibus, wedged in between a wet old 
lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his work 
with his tools in his lap. In melancholy solitude he 
discussed his mutton chop and pint of port. What is 
there in this world more melancholy than such a din- 
ner? A dinner, though eaten alone, in a country hotel 
may be worthy of some energy ; the waiter, if you are 
known, will make much of you ; the landlord will make 
you a bow and perhaps put the fish on the table ; if 
you ring you are attended to, and there is some life 
about it. A dinner at a London eatinghouse is also 
lively enough, if it have no other attraction. There is 
plenty of noise and stir about it, and the rapid whirl 
of voices and rattle of dishes disperses sadness. But 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 


193 


a solitary dinner in an old, respectable, sombre, solid 
London inn, where nothing makes any noise but the 
old waiter’s creaking shoes; where one plate slowly 
goes and another slowly comes without a sound ; where 
the two or three guests would as soon think of knock- 
ing each other down as of talking to one another; 
where the servants whisper, and the whole household 
is disturbed if an order be given above the voice, — 
what can be more melancholy than a mutton chop and 
a pint of port in such a place? 

Having gone through this Mr. Harding got into 
another omnibus, and again returned to the House. 
Yes, Sir Abraham was there, and was that moment on 
his legs, fighting eagerly for the hundred and seventh 
clause of the Convent Custody Bill. Mr. Harding’s 
note had been delivered to him ; and if Mr. Harding 
would wait some two or three hours. Sir Abraham 
could be asked whether there was any answer. The 
House was not full, and perhaps Mr. Harding might 
get admittance into the Strangers’ Gallery, which ad- 
mission, with the help of five shillings, Mr. Harding 
was able to effect.* 

This bill of Sir Abraham’s had been read a second 
time and passed into committee. A hundred and six 
clauses had already been discussed, and had occupied 
only four mornings and five evening sittings. Nine of 
the hundred and six clauses were passed, fifty-five were 
withdrawn by consent, fourteen had been altered so as 
to mean the reverse of the original proposition, eleven 
had been postponed for further consideration, and sev- 
enteen had been directly negatived. The hundred and 

* How these pleasant things have been altered since this was 
written a quarter of a century ago ! 

TJ 


194 


THE WARDEN. 


seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for Jes- 
uitical symbols by aged clergymen, and was consid- 
ered to be the real mainstay of the whole bill. No 
intention had ever existed to pass such a law as that 
proposed, but the Government did not intend to aban- 
don it till their object was fully attained by the discus- 
sion of this clause. It was known that it would be 
insisted on with terrible vehemence by Protestant Irish 
members, and as vehemently denounced by the Roman 
Catholic ; and it was justly considered that no further 
union between the parties would be possible after such 
a battle. The innocent Irish fell into the trap as they 
always do, and whiskey and poplins became a drug in 
the market.* 

A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair, 
from the south of Ireland, had succeeded in catching 
the speaker’s eye by the time that Mr. Harding had got 
into the gallery, and was denouncing the proposed sacri- 
lege, his whole face glowing with a fine theatrical frenzy. 

“ And is this a Christian country? ” said he. (Loud 
cheers ; counter cheers from the ministerial benches. 
* Some doubt as to that,’ from a voice below the gang- 
way.) “ No, it can be no Christian country, in which 
the head of the bar, the lagal adviser (loud laughter 
and cheers) — yes, I say the lagal adviser of the crown 
(great cheers and laughter) — can stand up in his seat 
in this house (prolonged cheers and laughter), and at- 
tempt to lagalise indacent assaults on the bodies of re- 
ligious ladies.” (Deafening cheers and laughter, which 
were prolonged till the honourable member resumed 
his seat.) 

When Mr. Harding had listened to this and much 

* Again what a change! 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 


195 


more of the same kind for about three hours, he re- 
turned to the door of the House, and received back 
from the messenger his own note, with the following 
words scrawled in pencil on the back of it ; — “ To-mor- 
row, 10 p.M. — my chambers. A. H.” 

He was so far successful. But 10 p.m.! What an 
hour Sir Abraham had named for a legal interview ! 
Mr. Harding felt perfectly sure that long before that 
Dr. Grantly would be in London. Dr. Grantly could 
not, however, know that this interview had been ar- 
ranged, nor could he learn it unless he managed to get 
hold of Sir Abraham before that hour ; and as this was 
very improbable, Mr. Harding determined to start from 
his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should 
dine out, and unless luck were much against him, he 
might still escape the archdeacon till his return from 
the attorney-general’s chambers. 

He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth 
time consulted his “ Bradshaw,” to see at what earliest 
hour Dr. Grantly could arrive from Barchester. As he 
examined the columns, he was nearly petrified by the 
reflection that perhaps the archdeacon might come up 
by the mail-train! His heart sank within him at the 
horrid idea, and for a moment he felt himself dragged 
back to Barchester without accomplishing any portion 
of his object. Then he remembered that had Dr. 
Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, look- 
ing for him long since. 

Waiter,” said he, timidly. 

The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but 
voiceless. 

‘‘ Did any gentleman, — a clergyman, arrive here by 
the night mail-train? ” 


196 


THE WARDEN. 


" No, sir, not one,” whispered the waiter, putting his 
mouth nearly close to the warden’s ear. 

Mr. Harding was reassured. 

“Waiter,” said he again, and the waiter again 
creaked up. “ If any one calls for me, I am going to 
dine out, and shall return about eleven o’clock.” 

The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe 
any reply ; and Mr. Harding, taking up his hat, pro- 
ceeded out to pass a long day in the best way he could, 
somewhere out of sight of the archdeacon. 

“ Bradshaw ” had told him twenty times that Dr. 
Grantly could not be at the Paddington station till 
2 P.M., and our poor friend might therefore have trusted 
to the shelter of the hotel for some hours longer with 
perfect safety. But he was nervous. There was no 
knowing what steps the archdeacon might take for his 
apprehension. A message by electric telegraph might 
desire the landlord of the hotel to set a watch upon 
him ; some letter might come which he might find him- 
self unable to disobey ; at any rate, he could not feel 
himself secure in any place at which the archdeacon 
could expect to find him; and at 10 a.m. he started 
forth to spend twelve hours in London. 

Mr. Harding had friends in town had he chosen to 
seek them ; but he felt that he was in no humour for 
ordinary calls, and he did not now wish to consult with 
any one as to the great step which he had determined 
to take. As he had said to his daughter, no one knows 
where the shoe pinches but the wearer. There are 
some points on which no man can be contented to fol- 
low the advice of another, — some subjects on which a 
man can consult his own conscience only. Our warden 
had made up his mind that it was good for him at any 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 197 

cost to get rid of this grievance. His daughter was the 
only person whose concurrence appeared necessary to 
him, and she did concur with him most heartily. Urn 
der such circumstances he would not, if he could help 
it, consult any one further till advice would be useless. 
Should the archdeacon catch him, indeed, there would 
be much advice, and much consultation of a kind not 
to be avoided ; but he hoped better things ; and as he 
felt that he could not now converse on indifferent sub- 
jects, he resolved to see no one till after his interview 
with the attorney-general. 

He determined to take sanctuary in Westminster 
Abbey ; he went, therefore, again thither in an omni- 
bus, and finding that the doors were not open for morn- 
ing service, he paid his twopence, and entered the 
Abbey as a sight-seer.* It occurred to him that he 
had no definite place of rest for the day, and that he 
should be absolutely worn out before his interview if 
he attempted to walk about from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. 
So he sat himself down on a stone step, and gazed up 
at the figure of William Pitt, who looks as though he 
had just entered the church for the first time in his life 
and was anything but pleased at finding himself there. 

He had been sitting unmolested about twenty min- 
utes when the verger asked him whether he would n’t 
like to walk round. Mr. Harding did n’t want to walk 
anywhere, and declined, merely observing that he was 
waiting for the morning service. The verger, seeing 
that he was a clergyman, told him that the doors of 
the choir were now open, and showed him into a seat. 
This was a great point gained ; the archdeacon would 
certainly not come to morning service at Westminster 
* Again what a change ! 


198 THE "WARDEN. 

Abbey, even though he were in London ; and here the 
warden could rest quietly, and, when the time came, 
duly say his prayers. 

He longed to get up from his seat, and examine the 
music-books of the choristers, and the copy of the litany 
from which the service was chanted, to see how far the 
little details at Westminster corresponded with those at 
Barchester, and whether he thought his own voice 
would fill the church well from the Westminster pre- 
centor’s seat. There would, however, be impropriety 
in such meddling, and he sat perfectly still, looking up 
at the noble roof, and guarding against the coming 
fatigues of the day. 

By degrees two or three people entered ; the very 
same damp old woman who had nearly obliterated him 
in the omnibus, or some other just like her ; a couple 
of young ladies with their veils down, and gilt crosses 
conspicuous on their prayer-books; an old man on 
crutches ; a party who were seeing the Abbey, and 
thought they might as well hear the service for their 
twopence, as opportunity served ; and a young woman 
with her prayer-book done up in her handkerchief, who 
rushed in late, and, in her hurried entry, tumbled over 
one of the forms, and made such a noise that every 
one, even the officiating minor canon, was startled, and 
she herself was so frightened by the echo of her own 
catastrophe that she was nearly thrown into fits by the 
panic. 

Mr. Harding was not much edified by the manner 
of the service. The minor canon in question hurried 
in, somewhat late, in a surplice not in the neatest order, 
and was followed by a dozen choristers, who were also 
not as trim as they might have been. They all jostled 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 


199 


into their places with a quick hurried step, and the ser- 
vice was soon commenced. Soon commenced and 
soon over, — for there was no music, and time was not 
unnecessarily lost in the chanting.* On the whole Mr. 
Harding was of opinion that things were managed bet- 
ter at Barchester, though even there he knew that there 
was room for improvement. 

It appears to us a question whether any clergyman 
can go through our church service with decorum, morn- 
ing after morning, in an immense building, surrounded 
by not more than a dozen listeners. The best actors 
cannot act well before empty benches, and though there 
is, of course, a higher motive in one case than the other, 
still even the best of clergymen cannot but be influ- 
enced by their audience. To expect that a duty 
should be well done under such circumstances, would 
be to require from human nature more than human 
power. 

When the two ladies with the gilt crosses, the old 
man with his crutches, and the still palpitating house- 
maid were going, Mr. Harding found himself obliged 
to go too. The verger stood in his way, and looked 
at him and looked at the door, and so he went. But 
he returned again in a few minutes, and re-entered 
with another twopence. There was no other sanctuary 
so good for him. 

As he walked slowly down the nave, and then up 
one aisle, and then again down the nave and up the 
other aisle, he tried to think gravely of the step he was 
about to take. He was going to give up eight hun- 
dred a year voluntarily ; and doom himself to live for 
the rest of his life on about a hundred and fifty. He 

* Again the changes which years have made should be noted. 


200 


THE WARDEN. 


knew that he had hitherto failed to realise this fact as 
he ought to do. Could he maintain his own independ- 
ence and support his daughter on a hundred and fifty- 
pounds a year without being a burden on any one? 
His son-in-law was rich, but nothing could induce him 
to lean on his son-in-law after acting, as he intended 
to do, in direct opposition to his son-in-law’s counsel. 
The bishop was rich, but he was about to throw away 
the bishop’s best gift, and that in a manner to injure 
materially the patronage of the giver. He could neither 
expect nor accept anything further from the bishop. 
There would be not only no merit, but positive dis- 
grace, in giving up his wardenship, if he were not pre- 
pared to meet the world without it. Yes; he must 
from this time forward limit all his human wishes for 
himself and his daughter to the poor extent of so lim- 
ited an income. He knew he had not thought suffi- 
ciently of this, that he had been carried away by enthu- 
siasm, and had hitherto not brought home to himself 
the full reality of his position. 

He thought most about his daughter, naturally. It 
was true that she was engaged, and he knew enough 
of his proposed son-in-law to be sure that his own 
altered circumstances would make no obstacle to such 
a marriage ; nay, he was sure that the very fact of his 
poverty would induce Bold more anxiously to press 
the matter ; but he disliked counting on Bold in this 
emergency, brought on, as it had been, by his doing. 
He did not like saying to himself, — Bold. has turned 
me out of my house and income, and therefore he 
must relieve me of my daughter ; he preferred reckon- 
ing on Eleanor as 'the companion of his poverty and 
exile, — as the sharer of his small income. 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 


201 


Some modest provision for his daughter had been 
long since made. His life was insured for three thou- 
sand pounds, and this sum was to go to Eleanor. The 
archdeacon, for some years past, had paid the premium, 
’and had secured himself by the immediate possession 
of a small property which was to have gone to Mrs. 
Grantly after her father’s death. This matter, there- 
fore, had been taken out of the warden’s hands long 
since, as, indeed, had all the business transactions of his 
family, and his anxiety was therefore confined to his 
own life income. 

Yes. A hundred and fifty per annum was very small, 
but still it might suffice. But how was he to chant the 
litany at the cathedral on Sunday mornings, and get 
the service done at Crabtree Parva? True, Crabtree 
Church was not quite a mile and a half from the cathe- 
dral ; but he could not be in two places at once ? 
Crabtree was a small village, and afternoon service 
might suffice, but still this went against his conscience. 
It was not right that his parishioners should be robbed 
of any of their privileges on account of his poverty. 
He might, to be sure, make some arrangements for 
doing weekday service at the cathedral ; but he had 
chanted the litany at Barchester so long, and had a 
conscious feeling that he did it so well, that he w^as 
unwilling to give up the duty. 

Thinking of such things, turning over in his own 
mind together small desires and grave duties, but never 
hesitating for a moment as to the necessity of leaving 
the hospital, Mr, Harding walked up and down the 
Abbey, or sat still meditating on the same stone step, 
hour after hour. One verger went and another came, 
but they did not disturb him. Every now and then 


202 


THE WARDEN. 


they crept up and looked at him, but they did so with 
a reverential stare, and, on the whole, Mr. Harding 
found his retreat well chosen. About four o’clock his 
comfort was disturbed by an enemy in the shape of 
hunger. It was necessary that he should dine, and it 
was clear that he could not dine in the Abbey. So 
he left his sanctuary not willingly, and betook him- 
self to the neighbourhood of the Strand to look for 
food. 

His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom 
of the church, that they were dazed when he got out 
into the full light of day, and he felt confused and 
ashamed of himself, as though people were staring at 
him. He hurried along, still in dread of the archdea- 
con, till he came to Charing Cross, and then remem- 
bered that in one of his passages through the Strand 
he had seen the words “ Chops and Steaks ” on a pla- 
card in a shop window. He remembered the shop dis- 
tinctly. It was next door to a trunk-seller’s, and there 
was a cigar shop on the other side. He could n’t go 
to his hotel for dinner, which to him hitherto was the 
only known mode of dining in London at his own ex- 
pense ; and therefore he would get a steak at the shop 
in the Strand. Archdeacon Grantly would certainly 
not come to such a place for his dinner. 

He found the house easily, — ^just as he had observed 
it, between the trunks and the cigars. He was rather 
daunted by the huge quantity of fish which he saw in 
the window. There were barrels of oysters, hecatombs 
of lobsters, a few tremendous-looking crabs, and a tub 
full of pickled salmon. Not, however, being aware of 
any connection between shell-fish and iniquity, he en- 
tered, and modestly asked a slatternly woman, who 


A LONG DAY IN LONDON. 


203 


was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir, 
whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato. 

The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered 
in the affirmative, and a slipshod girl ushered him into 
a long back room, filled with boxes for the accommo- 
dation of parties, in one of which he took his seat. In 
a more miserably forlorn place he could not have found 
himself. The room smelt of fish, and sawdust, and 
stale tobacco smoke, with a slight taint of escaped gas. 
Everything was rough, and dirty, and disreputable. 
The cloth which they put before him was abominable. 
The knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and 
filthy ; and everything was impregnated with fish. He 
had one comfort, however. He was quite alone ; there 
was no one there to look on his dismay ; nor was it 
probable that any one would come to do so. It was a 
London supper-house. About one o’clock at night the 
place would be lively enough, but at the present time 
his seclusion was as deep as it had been in the Abbey. 

In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed 
for her evening labours, brought him his chop and po- 
tatoes, and Mr. Harding begged for a pint of sherry. 
He was impressed with an idea, which was generally 
prevalent a few years since, and is not yet wholly re- 
moved from the minds of men, that to order a dinner 
at any kind of inn, without also ordering a pint of wine 
for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind of fraud ; — 
not punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abom- 
inable on that account. Mr. Harding remembered his 
coming poverty, and would willingly have saved his 
half-crown, but he thought he had no alternative ; and 
he was soon put in possession of some horrid mixture 
procured from the neighbouring public-house. 


304 ■ WARDEN. 

His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and 
having got over as best he might the disgust created 
by the knives and forks, he contrived to swallow his 
dinner. He was not much disturbed. One young 
man, with pale face and watery fish-like eyes, wearing 
his hat ominously on one side, did come in and stare 
at him, and ask the girl, audibly enough, “ Who that 
old cock was;” but the annoyance went no further, 
and the warden was left seated on his wooden bench in 
peace, endeavouring to distinguish the different scents 
arising from lobsters, oysters, and salmon. 

Unknowing as Mr. Harding was in the ways of Lon- 
don, he felt that he had somehow selected an ineligi- 
ble dining-house, and that he had better leave it. It 
was hardly five o’clock. How was he to pass the time 
till ten? Five miserable hours! He was already tired, 
and it was impossible that he should continue walking 
so long. He thought of getting into an omnibus, and 
going out to Fulham for the sake of coming back in 
another. This, however, would be weary work, and 
as he paid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked 
her if there were any place near where he could get a 
cup of coffee. Though she did keep a shell-fish sup- 
per-house, she was very civil, and directed him to the 
cigar divan on the other side of the street. 

Mr. Harding had not a much correcter notion of a 
cigar divan than he had of a London dinner-house, but 
he was desperately in want of rest, and went as he was 
directed. He thought he must have made some mis- 
take when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the 
man behind the counter saw immediately that he was 
a stranger, and understood what he wanted. “ One 
shilling, sir, — thank ye, sir, — cigar, sir? — ticket for cof- 


A LONG t>AY IN LONDON. 

fee, sir; — you ’ll only have to call the waiter. Up 
those stairs, if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, 
sir, — you can always give it to a friend, you know. 
Well, sir, thank ye, sir; — as you are so good, I ’ll 
smoke it myself.” And so Mr. Harding ascended to 
the divan, with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar. 

The place seemed much more suitable to his require- 
ments than the room in which he had dined. There 
was, to be sure, a strong smell of tobacco, to which he 
was not accustomed ; but after the shell-fish, the to- 
bacco did not seem disagreeable. There were quanti- 
ties of books, and long rows of sofas. What on earth 
could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a cup 
of coffee? An old waiter came up to him, with a 
couple of magazines and an evening paper. Was ever 
anything so civil? Would he have a cup of coffee, or 
would he prefer sherbet? Sherbet ! Was he absolutely 
in an Eastern divan, with the slight addition of all the 
London periodicals? He had, however, an idea that 
sherbet should be drank sitting cross-legged, and as he 
was not quite up to this, he ordered the coffee. 

The coffee came, and was unexceptionable. Why, 
this divan was a paradise ! The civil old waiter sug- 
gested to him a game of chess. Though a chess player 
he was not equal to this, so he declined, and, putting 
up his weary legs on the sofa, leisurely sipped his cof- 
fee, and turned over the pages of his Blackwood. He 
might have been so engaged for about an hour, for the 
old waiter enticed him to a second cup of coffee, when 
a musical clock began to play. Mr. Harding then 
closed his magazine, keeping his place with his finger, 
and lay, listening with closed eyes to the clock. Soon 
the clock seemed to turn into a violoncello, with piano 


2o6 


THE WARDEN. 


accompaniments, and Mr. Harding began to fancy the 
old waiter was the Bishop of Barchester ; he was inex- 
pressibly shocked that the bishop should have brought 
him his coffee with his own hands ; then Dr. Grantly 
came in, with a basket full of lobsters, which he would 
not be induced to leave downstairs in the kitchen ; 
and then the warden could n’t quite understand why 
so many people would smoke in the bishop’s drawing- 
room ; and so he fell fast asleep, and his dreams wan- 
dered away to his accustomed stall in Barchester Ca- 
thedral, and the twelve old men he was so soon about 
to leave for ever. 

He was fatigued, and slept soundly for some time. 
Some sudden stop in the musical clock woke him at 
length, and he jumped up with a start, surprised to find 
the room quite full. It had been nearly empty when 
his nap began. With nervous anxiety he pulled out 
his watch, and found that it was half-past nine. He 
seized his hat, and, hurrying downstairs, started at a 
rapid pace for Lincoln’s Inn. 

It still wanted twenty minutes to ten when the warden 
found himself at the bottom of Sir Abraham’s stairs, so 
he walked leisurely up and down the quiet inn to cool 
himself. It was a beautiful evening at the end of 
August. He had recovered from his fatigue. His 
sleep and the coffee had refreshed him, and he was 
surprised to find that he was absolutely enjoying him- 
self, when the inn clock struck ten. The sound was 
hardly over before he knocked at Sir Abraham’s door, 
and was informed by the clerk who received him that 
the great man would be with him immediately. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD. 

Mr. Harding was shown into a comfortable inner 
sitting-room, looking more like a gentleman’s book- 
room than a lawyer’s chambers, and there waited for 
Sir Abraham. Nor was he kept waiting long. In ten 
or fifteen minutes he heard a clatter of voices speaking 
quickly in the passage, and then the attorney-general 
entered. 

“ Very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Warden,” said 
Sir Abraham, shaking hands with him ; “ and sorry, 
too, to name so disagreeable an hour ; but your notice 
was short, and as you said to-day, I named the very 
earliest hour that was not disposed of.” 

Mr. Harding assured him that he was aware that it 
was he that should apologise. 

Sir Abraham was a tall thin man, with hair prema- 
turely grey, but bearing no other sign of age. He had 
a slight stoop, in his neck rather than his back, acquired 
by his constant habit of leaning forward as he addressed 
his various audiences. He might be fifty years old, 
and would have looked young for his age, had not con- 
stant work hardened his features, and given him the 
appearance of a machine with a mind. His face was 
full of intellect, but devoid of natural expression. You 


2o8 


THE WARDEN. 


would say he was a man to use, and then have done 
with ; a man to be sought for on great emergencies, 
but ill-adapted for ordinary services ; a man whom you 
would ask to defend your property, but to whom you 
would be sorry to confide your love. He was bright 
as a diamond, and as cutting, and also as unimpres- 
sionable. He knew every one whom to know was an 
honour, but he was without a friend ; he wanted none, 
however, and knew not the meaning of the word in 
other than its parliamentary sense. A friend! Had 
he not always been sufficient to himself, and now, at 
fifty, was it likely that he should trust another? He 
was married, indeed, and had children ; but what time 
had he for the soft idleness of conjugal felicity? His 
working days or term times were occupied from his time 
of rising to the late hour at which he went to rest, and 
even his vacations were more full of labour than the 
busiest days of other men. He never quarrelled with 
his wife, but he never talked to her. He never had 
time to talk, he was so taken up with speaking. She, 
poor lady, was not unhappy ; she had all that money 
could give her, she would probably live to be a peer- 
ess, and she really thought Sir Abraham the best of 
husbands. 

Sir Abraham was a man of wit, and sparkled among 
the brightest at the dinner-tables of political grandees. 
Indeed, he always sparkled ; whether in society, in the 
House of Commons, or the courts of law, coruscations 
flew from him ; glittering sparkles, as from hot steel ; 
but no heat ; no cold heart was ever cheered by warmth 
from him, no unhappy soul ever dropped a portion of 
its burden at his door. 

With him success alone was praiseworthy, and he 


SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD. 


209 


knew none so successful as himself. No one had 
thrust him forward ; no powerful friends had pushed 
him along on his road to power. No ; he was attor- 
ney-general, and would, in all human probability, be 
lord chancellor by sheer dint of his own industry and 
his own talent. Who else in all the world rose so high 
with so little help? A premier, indeed! Who had 
ever been premier without mighty friends? An arch- 
bishop! Yes, the son or grandson of a great noble, or 
else, probably, his tutor. But he. Sir Abraham, had 
had no mighty lord at his back. His father had been 
a country apothecary, his mother a farmer’s daughter. 
Why should he respect any but himself? And so he 
glitters along through the world, the brightest among 
the bright ; and when his glitter is gone, and he is 
gathered to his fathers, no eye will be dim with a tear, 
no heart will mourn for its lost friend. 

“And so, Mr. Warden,” said Sir Abraham, “all our 
trouble about this law-suit is at an end.” 

Mr. Harding said he hoped so, but he did n’t at all 
understand what Sir Abraham meant. Sir Abraham, 
with all his sharpness, could hardly have looked into 
his heart and read his intentions. 

“ All over. You need trouble yourself no further 
about it. Of course they must pay the costs, and the 
absolute expense to you and Dr. Grantly will be tri- 
fling ; — that is, compared with what it might have been 
if it had been continued.” 

“ I fear I don’t quite understand you. Sir Abraham.” 

“ Don’t you know that their attorneys have noticed 
us that they have withdrawn the suit? ” 

Mr. Harding explained to the lawyer that he knew 
nothing of this, although he had heard in a round- 
14 


210 


THE WARDEN. 


about way that such an intention had been talked of ; 
and he also at length succeeded in making Sir Abra- 
ham understand that even this did not satisfy him. 
The attorney-general stood up, put his hands into his 
breeches’ pockets, and raised his eyebrows, as Mr. 
Harding proceeded to detail the grievance from which 
he now wished to rid himself. 

“ I know I have no right to trouble you personally 
with this matter, but as it is of most vital importance 
to me, as all my happiness is concerned in it, I thought 
I might venture to seek your advice.” 

Sir Abraham bowed, and declared his clients were 
entitled to the best advice he could give them; — par- 
ticularly a client so respectable in every way as the 
Warden of Barchester Hospital. 

“A spoken word. Sir Abraham, is often of more 
value than volumes of written advice. The truth is, I 
am ill-satisfied with this matter as it stands at present. 
I do see, — I cannot help seeing, that the affairs of the 
hospital are not arranged according to the will of the 
founder.” 

''None of such institutions are, Mr. Harding, nor 
can they be. The altered circumstances in which we 
live do not admit of it.” 

" Quite true, — that is quite true ; but I can’t see 
that those altered circumstances give me a right to 
eight hundred a year. I don’t know whether I ever 
read John Hiram’s will, but were I to read it now I 
could not understand it. What I want you. Sir Abra- 
ham, to tell me, is this ; — am I, as warden, legally and 
distinctly entitled to the proceeds of the property, after 
the due maintenance of the twelve bedesmen? ” 

Sir Abraham declared that he could n’t exactly say 


SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD. 


21 1 


in so many words that Mr. Harding was legally enti- 
tled to, &c., &c., &c., and ended in expressing a strong 
opinion that it would be madness to raise any further 
question on the matter, as the suit was to be, — nay^ 
was, abandoned. 

Mr. Harding, seated in his chair, began to play a 
slow tune on an imaginary violoncello. 

“Nay, my dear sir,” continued the attorney-general, 
“ there is no further ground for any question. I don’t 
see that you have the power of raising it.” 

“ I can resign,” said Mr. Harding, slowly playing 
away with his right hand, as though the bow were be- 
neath the chair in which he was sitting. 

“ What! throw it up altogether? ” said the attorney- 
general, gazing with utter astonishment at his client. 

“ Did you see those articles in the Jupiter? ” said 
Mr. Harding, piteously, appealing to the sympathy of 
the lawyer. 

Sir Abraham said he had seen them. This poor little 
clergyman, cowed into such an act of extreme weak- 
ness by a newspaper article, was to Sir Abraham so 
contemptible an object that he hardly knew how to 
talk to him as to a rational being. 

“ Had n’t you better wait,” said he, “ till Dr. Grantly 
is in town with you? Would n’t it be better to post- 
pone any serious step till you can consult with him? ” 

Mr. Harding declared vehemently that he could not 
wait, and Sir Abraham began seriously to doubt his 
sanity. ' 

“ Of course,” said the latter, “ if you have private 
means sufficient for your wants, and if this ” 

“I have n’t a sixpence. Sir Abraham,” said the 
warden. i , 


212 


THE WARDEN. 


“God bless me! Why, Mr. Harding, how do you 
mean to live? ” 

Mr. Harding proceeded to explain to the man of 
law that he meant to keep his precentorship, — that 
was eighty pounds a year ; and, also, that he meant to 
fall back upon his own little living of Crabtree, which 
was another eighty pounds. That, to be sure, the 
duties of the two were hardly compatible ; but per- 
haps he might effect an exchange. And then, recol- 
lecting that the attorney-general would hardly care to 
hear how the service of a cathedral church is divided 
among the minor canons, stopped short in his expla- 
nations. 

Sir Abraham listened in pitying wonder. “ I really 
think, Mr. Harding, you had ’better wait for the arch- 
deacon. This is a most serious step ; — one for which, 
in my opinion, there is not the slightest necessity ; and, 
as you have done me the honour of asking my advice, 
I must implore you to do nothing without the approval 
of your friends. A man is never the best judge of his 
own position.” 

“ A man is the best judge of what he feels himself. 
I ’d sooner beg my bread till my death than read such 
another article as those two that have appeared, and 
feel, as I do, that the writer has truth on his side.” 

“ Have you not a daughter, Mr. Harding, — an un- 
married daughter? ” 

“ I have,” said he, now standing also, but still play- 
ing away on his fiddle with his hand behind his back. 
“ I have. Sir Abraham ; and she and I are completely 
agreed on this subject.” 

“ Pray excuse me, Mr. Harding, if what I say seems 
impertinent ; but surely it is you that should be pfu- 


SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD. 


213 


dent on her behalf. She is young, and does not know 
the meaning of living on an income of a hundred and 
fifty pounds a year. On her account give up this idea. 
Believe me, it is sheer Quixotism.” 

The warden walked away to the window, and then 
back to his chair ; and then, irresolute what to say, 
took another turn to the window. The attorney-gen- 
eral was really extremely patient, but he was beginning 
to think that the interview had been long enough. 

” But if this income be not justly mine, what if she 
and I have both to beg? ” said the warden at last, 
sharply, and in a voice so different from that he had 
hitherto used that Sir Abraham was startled. “ If so, 
it would be better to beg.” 

“ My dear sir, nobody now questions its justness.” 

‘‘Yes, Sir Abraham, one does question it, — the most 
important of all witnesses against me ; — I question it 
myself. My God knows whether or no I love my 
daughter; but I would sooner that she and I should 
both beg than that she should live in comfort on 
money which is truly the property of the poor. It may 
seem strange to you. Sir Abraham, it is strange to my- 
self, that I should have been ten years in that happy 
home, and not have thought of these things, till they 
were so roughly dinned into my ears. I cannot boast of 
my conscience, when it required the violence of a pub- 
lic newspaper to awaken it ; but, now that it is awake, 
I must obey it. When I came here I did not know 
that the suit was withdrawn by Mr. Bold, and my ob- 
ject was to beg you to abandon my^ defence. As there 
is no action, there can- be no defence. But it is, at 
any rate, as well that you should know that from to- 
morrow I shall cease to be the warden of the hospital. 


214 


THE WARDEN. 


My friends and I differ on this subject, Sir Abraham, 
and that adds much to my sorrow : but it cannot be 
helped.” And, as he finished what he had to say, he 
played up such a tune as never before had graced the 
chambers of any attorney-general. He was standing 
up, gallantly fronting Sir Abraham, and his right arm 
passed with bold and rapid sweeps before him, as 
though he were embracing some huge instrument, 
which allowed him to stand thus erect ; and with the 
fingers of his left hand he stopped, with preternatural 
velocity, a multitude of strings, which ranged from the 
top of his collar to the bottom of the lappet of his coat. 
Sir Abraham listened and looked in wonder. As he 
had never before seen Mr. Harding, the meaning of 
these wild gesticulations was lost upon him; but he 
perceived that the gentleman who had a few min- 
utes since been so subdued as to be unable to speak 
without hesitation was now impassioned, — nay, almost 
violent. 

You ’ll sleep on this, Mr. Harding, and to-mor- 
row ” 

“ I have done more than sleep upon it,” said the 
warden ; I have laid awake upon it, and that night 
after night. I found I could not sleep upon it. Now 
I hope to do so.” 

The attorney-general had no answer to make to 
this ; so he expressed a quiet hope that whatever set- 
tlement was finally made would be satisfactory ; and 
Mr. Harding withdrew, thanking the great man for his 
kind attention. 

Mr. Harding was sufficiently satisfied with the inter- 
view to feel a glow of comfort as he descended into the 
small old square of Lincoln’s Inn. It was a calm, 


SIR ABRAHAM HAPHAZARD. 


215 


bright, beautiful night, and by the light of the moon, 
even the chapel of Lincoln’s Inn, and the sombre row 
of chambers which surround the quadrangle, looked 
well. He stood still a moment to collect his thoughts, 
and reflect on what he had done, and was about to do. 
He knew that the attorney-general regarded him as 
little better than a fool, but that he did not mind ; he 
and the attorney-general had not much in common be- 
tween them ; he knew also that others, whom he did 
care about, would think so too ; but Eleanor, he was 
sure, would exult in what he had done, and the bishop, 
he trusted, would sympathise with him. 

In the meantime he had to meet the archdeacon, 
and so he walked slowly down Chancery Lane and 
along Fleet Street, feeling sure that his work for the 
night was not yet over. When he reached the hotel 
he rang the bell quietly, and with a palpitating heart. 
He almost longed to escape round the corner, and de- 
lay the coming storm by a further walk round St. 
Paul’s Churchyard, but he heard the slow creaking 
shoes of the old waiter approaching, and he stood his 
ground manfully. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE WARDEN IS VERY OBSTINATE. 

Dr. Grantly is here, sir,” greeted his ears before 
the door was well open, ‘‘and Mrs. Grantly. They 
have a sitting-room above, and are waiting up for you.” 

There was something in the tone of the man’s voice 
which seemed to indicate that even he looked upon 
the warden as a runaway schoolboy, just recaptured by 
his guardian, and that he pitied the culprit, though he 
could not but be horrified at the crime. 

The warden endeavoured to appear unconcerned, as 
he said, “Oh, indeed! I ’ll go upstairs at once;” but 
he failed signally. There was, perhaps, a ray of com- 
fort in the presence of his married daughter ; that is to 
say, of comparative comfort, seeing that his son-in-law 
was there ; but how much would he have preferred 
that they should both have been safe at Plumstead 
Episcopi! However, upstairs he went, the waiter 
slowly preceding him ; and on the door being opened 
the archdeacon was discovered standing in the middle 
of the room, erect, indeed, as usual, but oh! how sor- 
rowful! And on a dingy sofa behind him reclined his 
patient wife. 

“Papa, I thought you were never coming back,” 
said the lady ; “ it ’s twelve o’clock.” 

“Yes, my dear,” said the warden. “The attorney- 


THE WARDEN IS VERY OBSTINATE. 


217 


general named ten for my meeting. To be sure ten is 
late, but what could I do, you know? Great men will 
have their own way.” 

And he gave his daughter a kiss, and shook hands 
with the doctor, and again tried to look uncon- 
cerned. 

‘‘ And you have absolutely been with the attorney- 
general ? ” asked the archdeacon. 

Mr. Harding signified that he had. 

“ Good heavens, how unfortunate! ” And the arch- 
deacon raised his huge hands in the manner in which 
his friends are so accustomed to see him express disap- 
probation and astonishment. What will Sir Abraham 
think of it? Did you not know that it is not custom- 
ary for clients to go direct to their counsel? ” 

“ Is n’t it? ” asked the warden, innocently. “Well, 
at any rate, I ’ve done it. Sir Abraham did n’t seem 
to think it so very strange.” 

The archdeacon gave a sigh that would have moved 
a man-of-war. 

“But, papa, what did you say to Sir Abraham?” 
asked the lady. 

“ I asked him, my dear, to explain John Hiram’s will 
to me. He could n’t explain it in the only way which 
would have satisfied me, and so I resigned the warden- 
ship.” 

“Resigned it!” said the archdeacon, in a solemn 
voice, sad and low, but yet -sufficiently audible ; — a 
sort of whisper that Macready would have envied, and 
the galleries have applauded with a couple of rounds. 
“ Resigned it! Good heavens! ” And the dignitary of 
the church sank back horrified into a horse-hair arm- 
phair. 


2i8 


THE WARDEN. 


'' At least I told Sir Abraham that I would resign ; 
— and of course I must now do so.” 

“ Not at all,” said the archdeacon, catching a ray of 
hope. “ Nothing that you say in such a way to 
own counsel can be in any way binding on you. Of 
course you were there to ask his advice. I ’m sure. 
Sir Abraham did not advise any such step.” 

Mr. Harding could not say that he had. 

“ I am sure he disadvised you from it,” continued 
the reverend cross-examiner. 

Mr. Harding could not deny this. 

“ I ’m sure Sir Abraham must have advised you to 
consult your friends.” 

To this proposition also Mr. Harding was obliged 
to assent. 

“ Then your threat of resignation amounts to noth- 
ing, and we are just where we were before.” 

Mr. Harding was now standing on the rug, moving 
uneasily from one foot to the other. He made no dis- 
tinct answer to the archdeacon’s last proposition, for 
his mind was chiefly engaged on thinking how he could 
escape to bed. That his resignation was a thing finally 
fixed on, a fact all but completed, was not in his mind 
a matter of any doubt. He knew his own weakness ; 
he knew how prone he was to be led ; but he was not 
weak enough to give way now, to go back from the 
position to which his conscience had driven him, after 
having purposely come to London to declare his de- 
termination. He did not in the least doubt his resolu- 
tion, but he greatly doubted his power of defending it 
against his son-in-law. 

You must be very tired, Susan,” said he : would n’t 
you like to go to bed ? ” 


THE WARDEN IS VERY OBSTINATE. 


219 


But Susan did n’t want to go till her husband went. 
She had an idea that her papa might be bullied if she 
were away. She was n’t tired at all, or at least she 
said so. 

The archdeacon was pacing the room, expressing, 
by certain noddles of his head, his opinion of the utter 
fatuity of his father-in-law. 

“ Why,” at last he said, — and angels might have 
blushed at the rebuke expressed in his tone and empha- 
sis, — “ Why did you go off from Barchester so sud- 
denly ? Why did you take such a step without giving 
us notice, after what had passed at the palace? ” 

The warden hung his head, and made no reply. 
He could not condescend to say that he had not in- 
tended to give his son-in-law the slip ; and as he had 
not the courage to avow it, he said nothing. 

Papa has been too much for you,” said the lady. 

The archdeacon took another turn, and again ejacu- 
lated, '"Good heavens!” — this time in a very low 
whisper, but still audibly. 

I think I ’ll go to bed,” said the warden, taking 
up a side candle. 

'' At any rate, you ’ll promise me to take no further 
step without consultation,” said the archdeacon. Mr. 
Harding made no answer, but slowly proceeded to light 
his candle. Of course,” continued the other, “ such 
a declaration as that you made to Sir Abraham means 
nothing. Come, warden, promise me this. The whole 
affair, you see, is already settled, and that with very 
little trouble or expense. Bold has been compelled to 
abandon his action, and all you have to do is to remain 
quiet at the hospital.” Mr. Harding still made no re- 
ply, but looked meekly into his son-in-law’s face. The 


220 


THE WATRDEN. 


archdeacon thought he knew his father-in-law, but he 
was mistaken ; he thought that he had already talked 
over a vacillating man to resign his promise. Come, 
said he, “ promise Susan to give up this idea of resign- 
ing the wardenship.” 

The warden looked at his daughter, thinking proba- 
bly at the moment that if Eleanor were contented with 
him, he need not so much regard his other child, and 
said, ‘‘ I am sure Susan will not ask me to break my 
word, or to do what I know to be wrong.” 

“Papa,” said she, “it would be madness in you to 
throw up your preferment. What are you to live on? ” 

“ God, that feeds the young ravens, will take care 
of me also,” said Mr. Harding, with a smile, as though 
afraid of giving offence by making his reference to 
scripture too solemn. 

“Pish!” said the archdeacon, turning away rapidly. 
“ If the ravens persisted in refusing the food prepared 
for them, they would n’t be fed.” A clergyman gen- 
' erally dislikes to be met in argument by any scriptural 
quotation ; he feels as affronted as a doctor does, when 
recommended by an old woman to take some favourite 
dose, or as a lawyer when an unprofessional man at- 
tempts to put him down by a quibble. 

“ I shall have the living of Crabtree,” modestly sug- 
gested the warden. 

“ Eighty pounds a year! ” sneered the archdeacon. 

“ And the precentorship,” said the father-in-law. 

“ It goes with the wardenship,” said the son-in-law. 
Mr. Harding was prepared to argue this point, and 
began to do so, but Dr. Grantly stopped him. “ My 
dear warden,” said he, “ this is all nonsense. Eighty 
pounds or a hundred and sixty makes very little differ' 


THE WARDEN IS VERY OBSTINATE. 


221 


ence. You can’t live on it ; — you can’t ruin Eleanor’s 
prospects for ever. In point of fact, you can’t resign. 
The bishop would n’t accept it. The whole thing is 
settled. What I now want to do is to prevent any in- 
convenient tittle-tattle, — any more newspaper articles.” 

“ That ’s what I want, too,” said the warden. 

“And to prevent that,” continued the other, “we 
must n’t let any talk of resignation get abroad.” 

“ But I shall resign,” said the warden, very, very 
meekly. 

“ Good heavens ! Susan, my dear, what can I say 
to him? ” 

“ But, papa,” said Mrs. Grantly, getting up, and put- 
ting her arm through that of her father, “ what is Elea- 
nor to do if you throw away your income? ” 

A hot tear stood in each of the warden’s eyes as he 
looked round upon his married daughter. Why should 
one sister who was so rich predict poverty for another? 
Some such idea as this was on his mind, but he gave 
no utterance to it. Then he thought of the pelican 
feeding its young with blood from its own breast, but 
he gave no utterance to that either; — and then of 
Eleanor waiting for him at home, waiting to congrat- 
ulate him on the end of all his trouble. 

“Think of Eleanor, papa,” said Mrs. Grantly. 

“ I do think of her,” said her father. 

“And you will not do this rash thing? ” The lady 
was really moved beyond her usual calm composure. 

“ It can never be rash to do right,” said he. “ I shall 
certainly resign this wardenship.” 

“Then, Mr. Harding, there is nothing before you 
but ruin,” said the archdeacon, now moved beyond all 
endurance. “ Ruin both for you and Eleanor. How 


222 


THE WARDEN. 


do you mean to pay the monstrous expenses of this 
action? ” 

Mrs. Grantly suggested that, as the action was aban- 
doned, the costs would not be heavy. 

“ Indeed they will, my dear,” continued he. “ One 
cannot have the attorney-general up at twelve o’clock 
at night for nothing. But of 'course your father has 
not thought of this.” 

“I will sell my furniture,” said the warden. 

Furniture! ” ejaculated the other, with a most pow- 
erful sneer. 

“ Come, archdeacon,” said the lady, we need n't 
mind that at present. You know you never expecteii 
papa to pay the costs.” ‘ 

“ Such absurdity is enough to provoke Job,” said the 
archdeacon, marching quickly up and down the room. 
Your father is like a child. Eight hundred pounds 
a year! — Eight hundred and eighty with the house ; — 
with nothing to do. The very place for him. And to 
throw that up because some scoundrel writes an article 
in a newspaper! Well; — I have done my duty. If 
he chooses to ruin his child I cannot help it.” And he 
stood still at the fireplace, and looked at himself in a 
dingy mirror which stood on the chimney-piece. 

There was a pause for about a minute, and then the 
warden, finding that nothing else was coming, lighted 
his candle, and quietly said, ‘‘ Good night.” 

‘‘ Good night, papa,” said the lady. 

And so the warden retired ; but, as he closed the 
door behind him, he heard the well-known ejaculation, 
— slower, lower, more solemn, more ponderous than 
ever ; — “ Good heavens! ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 

The party met next morning at breakfast ; and a 
very sombre affair it was ; — very unlike the breakfasts 
at Plumstead Episcopi. 

There were three thin, small, dry bits of bacon, each 
an inch long, served up under a huge old plated cover ; 
there were four three-cornered bits of dry toast, and 
four square bits of buttered toast ; there was a loaf of 
bread, and some oily-looking butter ; and on the side- 
board there were the remains of a cold shoulder of 
mutton. The archdeacon, however, had not come up 
from his rectory to St. Paul’s Churchyard to enjoy him- 
self, and therefore nothing was said of the scanty fare. 

The guests were as sorry as the viands. Hardly 
anything was said over the breakfast-table. The arch- 
deacon munched his toast in ominous silence, turning 
over bitter thoughts in his deep mind. The warden 
tried to talk to his daughter, and she tried to answer 
him ; but they both failed. There were no feelings at 
present in common between them. The warden was 
thinking only of getting back to Barchester, and calcu- 
lating whether the archdeacon would expect him to 
wait for him ; and Mrs. Grantly was preparing herself 
for a grand attack which she was to make on her 
father, as agreed upon between herself and her husband 
during their curtain confabulation of that morning. 


224 


THE WARDEN. 


When the waiter had creaked out of the room with 
the last of the teacups, the archdeacon got up and 
went to the window, as though to admire the view. 
The room looked out on a narrow passage which runs 
from St. Paul’s Churchyard to Paternoster Row ; and 
Dr. Grantly patiently perused the names of the three 
shopkeepers whose doors were in view. The warden 
still kept his seat at the table, and examined the pat- 
tern of the table-cloth ; and Mrs. Grantly, seating her- 
self on the sofa, began to knit. 

After a while the warden pulled his “ Bradshaw ” out 
of his pocket, and began laboriously to consult it. There 
was a train for Barchester at lo a.m. That was out 
of the question, for it was nearly ten already. Another 
at 3 p.M. ; another, the night-mail train, at 9 p.m. The 
three o’clock train would take him home to tea, and 
would suit very well. 

My dear,” said he, “ I think I shall go back home 
at three o’clock to-day. I shall get home at half-past 
eight. I don’t think there ’s anything to keep me in 
London.” 

“The archdeacon and I return by the early train 
to-morrow, papa. Won’t you wait and go back with 
us?” 

“ Why, Eleanor will expect me to-night ; and I Ve 
so much to do ; and ” 

“Much to do!” said the archdeacon sotto voce; 
but the warden heard him. 

“You ’d better wait for us, papa.” 

“Thank ye, my dear! I think I ’ll go this after- 
noon.” The tamest animal will turn when driven too 
hard, and even Mr. Harding was beginning to fight for 
his own way. 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 


225 


** I suppose you won^t be back before three? ” said 
the lady, addressing her husband. 

“ I must leave this at two,” said the warden. 

“ Quite out of the question,” said the archdeacon, 
answering his wife, and still reading the shopkeepers’ 
names ; “ I don’t suppose I shall be back till five.” 

There was another long pause, during which Mr. 
Harding continued to study his “ Bradshaw.” 

“ I must go to Cox and Cummins,” said the arch- 
deacon at last. 

“ Oh, to Cox and Cummins,” said the warden. It 
was quite a matter of indifference to him where his 
son-in-law went. 

The names of Cox and Cummins had now no inter- 
est in his ears. What had he to do with Cox and 
Cummins further, having already had his suit finally 
adjudicated upon in a court of conscience, a judgment 
without power of appeal fully registered, and the mat- 
ter settled so that all the lawyers in London could not 
disturb it. The archdeacon could go to Cox and 
Cummins, could remain there all day in anxious dis- 
cussion ; but what might be said there was no longer 
matter of interest to him, who was so soon to lay aside 
the name of Warden of Barchester Hospital. , 

The archdeacon took up his shining new clerical 
hat, and put on his black new clerical gloves, and 
looked heavy, respectable, decorous, and opulent, a 
decided clergyman of the Church of England, every 
inch of him. I suppose I shall see you at Barchester 
the day after to-morrow,” said he. 

The warden supposed he would. 

I must once more beseech you to take no further 
steps till you see my father. If you owe me nothing,” 

15 


220 


THE WARDEN. 


and the archdeacon looked as though he thought a 
great deal were due to him, “at least you owe so 
much to my father.” Without waiting for a reply, Dr. 
Grantly wended his way to Cox and Cummins. 

Mrs. Grantly waited till the last fall of her husband’s 
foot was heard, as he turned out of the court info St. 
Paul’s Churchyard, and then commenced her task of 
talking her father over. 

“ Papa,” she began, “ this is a most serious business.” 

“ Indeed it is,” said the warden, ringing the bell. 

“ I greatly feel the distress of mind you must have 
endured.” 

“ I am sure you do, my dear;” — and he ordered the 
waiter to bring him pen, ink, and paper. 

“Are you going to write, papa? ” 

“ Yes, my dear. I am going to write my resignation 
to the bishop.” 

“ Pray, pray, papa, put it off till our return. Pray 
put it off till you have seen the bishop. Dear papa! 
for my sake, for Eleanor’s ! ” 

“ It is for your sake and Eleanor’s that I do this. I 
hope, at least, that my children may never have to be 
ashamed of their father.” 

“ How can you talk about shame, papa? ” Then 
she stopped while the waiter creaked in with the paper 
and slowly creaked out again. “ How can you talk 
about shame? You know what all your friends think 
about this question.” 

The warden spread his paper on the table, placing 
it on the meagre blotting-book which the hotel afforded, 
and sat himself down to write. 

“You won’t refuse me one request, papa? ” contin- 
ued his daughter ; “ you won’t refuse to delay your let- 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 


227 


ter for two short days? Two days can make no pos- 
sible difference.” 

“ My dear,” said he naively, if I waited till I got 
to Barchester, I might, perhaps, be prevented.” 

“But surely you would not wish to offend the 
bishop? ” said she. 

“ God forbid ! The bishop is not apt to take offence, 
and knows me too well to take in bad part anything 
that I may be called on to do.” 

“ But, papa ” 

“ Susan,” said he, “ my mind on this subject is made 
up. It is not without much repugnance that I act in 
opposition to the advice of such men as Sir Abraham 
Haphazard and the archdeacon ; but in this matter I 
can take no advice ; I cannot alter the resolution to 
which I have come.” 

“ But two days, papa ” 

“No; — nor can I delay it. You may add to my 
present unhappiness by pressing me, but you cannot 
change my purpose ; it will be a comfort to me if you 
will let the matter rest.” Then, dipping his pen into 
the inkstand, he fixed his eyes intently on the paper. 

There was something in his manner which taught his 
daughter to perceive that he was in earnest. She had 
at one time ruled supreme in her father’s house, but 
she knew that there were moments when, mild and 
meek as he was, he would have his way, and the pres- 
ent was an occasion of the sort. She returned, there- 
fore, to her knitting, and very shortly after left the 
room. 

The warden was now at liberty to compose his let- 
ter, and, as it was characteristic of the man, it shall be 
given at full length. The official letter, which, when 


228 


THE WARDEN. 


written, seemed to him to be too formally cold to be 
sent alone to so dear a friend, was accompanied by a 
private note ; and both are here inserted. 

The letter of resignation ran as follows: — 

‘ Chapter Hotel, St. Paul’s, 

* London, — August, i8 — . 

* My Lord Bishop, 

' It is with the greatest pain that I feel myself 
‘ constrained to resign into your Lordship’s hands the 
‘ wardenship of the hospital at Barchester, which you 
‘ so kindly conferred upon me, now nearly twelve years 
‘ since. 

* I need not explain the circumstances which have 
•made this step appear necessary to me. You are 
‘ aware that a question has arisen as to the right of the 

* warden to the income which has been allotted to the 

* wardenship. It has seemed to me that this right is 
‘ not well made out, and I hesitate to incur the risk of 

* taking an income to which my legal claim appears 
‘ doubtful. 

‘ The office of precentor of the cathedral is, as your 

* Lordship is aware, joined to that of the warden. 
‘ That is to say, the precentor has for many years been 

* the warden of the hospital. There is, however, noth- 
‘ing to make the junction of the two offices necessary, 
‘and, unless you or the dean and chapter object to 

* such an arrangement, I would wish to keep the pre- 
‘centorship. The income of this office will now be 
‘necessary to me. Indeed, I do not know why I 
‘ should be ashamed to say that I should have difficulty 
‘ in supporting myself without it. 

‘ Your Lordship, and such others as you may please 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 


229 


‘ to consult on the matter, will at once see that my res- 
'ignation of the wardenship need offer not the slight- 
‘ est bar to its occupation by another person. I am 
' thought in the wrong by all those whom I have con- 
‘ suited in the matter. I have very little but an inward 
‘ and an unguided conviction of my own to bring me 
‘ to this step, and I shall, indeed, be hurt to find that 
‘ any slur is thrown on the preferment which your kind- 
‘ ness bestowed on me, by my resignation of it. I, at 
‘ any rate for one, shall look on any successor whom 
‘ you may appoint as enjoying a clerical situation of 
‘ the highest respectability, and one to which your Lord- 
‘ ship’s nomination gives an indefeasible right. 

‘ I cannot finish this official letter without again thank- 
‘ ing your Lordship for all your great kindness, and I 
‘ beg to subscribe myself 

'Your Lordship’s most obedient servant, 

‘Septimus Harding, 

* Warden of Barchester Hospital, 

‘ and Precentor of the cathedral. * 

He then wrote the following private note : — 

‘ My dear Bishop, 

‘ I cannot send you the accompanying official let- 
‘ ter without a warmer expression of thanks for all your 
‘ kindness than would befit a document which may to 
‘a certain degree be made public. You, I know, will 
‘ understand the feeling, and, perhaps, pity the weak- 
‘ ness which makes me resign the hospital. I am not 
‘made of calibre strong enough to withstand public 
‘attack. Were I convinced that I stood on ground 
‘ perfectly firm, that I was certainly justified in taking 
‘ eight hundred a year under Hirarn’s will, I should feel 


230 


THE WARDEN. 


‘ bound by duty to retain the position, however unen- 
‘ durable might be the nature of the assault ; but, as 
‘ I do not feel this conviction, I cannot believe that 
‘ you will think me wrong in what I am doing. 

‘ I had at one time an idea of keeping only some 
‘ moderate portion of the income ; perhaps three hun- 
‘ dred a year, and of remitting the remainder to the 
‘ trustees ; but it occurred to me, and I think with 
‘reason, that by so doing I should place my succes- 
‘sors in an invidious position, and greatly damage 
‘ your patronage. 

‘ My dear friend, let me have a line from you to say 
‘ that you do not blame me for what I am doing, and 
‘ that the officiating vicar of Crabtree Parva will be the 
‘ same to you as the warden of the hospital. 

‘ I am very anxious about the precentorship : the 
‘ archdeacon thinks it must go with the wardenship ; I 
‘ think not, and that, having it, I cannot be ousted. I 
‘will, however, be guided by you and the dean. No 
‘ other duty will suit me so well, or come so much 
‘ within my power of adequate performance. 

‘ I thank you from my heart for the preferment which 
‘ I am now giving up, and for all your kindness, and 
‘ am, dear bishop, now as always. 

‘Yours most affectionately, 

‘Septimus Harding. 

* London, — August, i8 — .’ 

Having written these letters and made a copy of the 
former one for the benefit of the archdeacon, Mr. 
Harding, whom we must now cease to call the warden, 
— he having designated himself so for the last time, — 
found that it was nearly two o’clock, and that he must 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 


231 


prepare for his journey. Yes ; from this time he never 
again admitted the name by which he had been so 
familiarly known, and in which, to tell the truth, he 
had rejoiced. The love of titles is common to all men, 
and a vicar or fellow is as pleased at becoming Mr. 
Archdeacon or Mr. Provost, as a lieutenant at getting 
his captaincy, or a city tallow-chandler in becoming 
Sir John on the occasion of a Queen’s visit to a new 
bridge. But warden he was no longer, and the name 
of precentor, though the office was to him so dear, con- 
fers in itself no sufficient distinction. Our friend, there- 
fore, again became Mr. Harding. 

Mrs. Grantly had gone out ; he had, therefore, no 
one to delay him by further entreaties to postpone his 
journey ; he had soon arranged his bag, and paid his 
bill, and, leaving a note for his daughter, in which he 
put the copy of his official letter, he got into a cab and 
drove away to the station with something of triumph 
in his heart. 

Had he not cause for triumph? Had he not been 
supremely successful? Had he not for the first time 
in his life held his own purpose against that of his son- 
in-law, and manfully combated against great odds, — 
against the archdeacon’s wife as well as the archdea- 
con? Had he not gained a great victory, and was it 
not fit that he should step into his cab with triumph? 

He had not told Eleanor when he would return, but 
she was on the lookout for him by every train by which 
he could arrive, and the pony-carriage was at the Bar- 
chester station when the train drew up at the platform. 

“ My dear,” said he, sitting beside her, as she steered 
her little vessel to one side of the road to make room 
for the clattering omnibuses as they passed from the 


232 THE WARDEN. 

Station into the town^; I hope you ’ll be able to feel 
a proper degree of respect for the vicar of Crabtree.” 

“ Dear papa,” said she, “ I am so glad.” 

There was great comfort in returning home to that 
pleasant house, though he was to leave it so soon, and 
in discussing with his daughter all that he had done, 
and all that he had to do. It must take some time 
to get out of one house into another. The curate at 
Crabtree should not be abolished under six months, 
that is, unless other provision could be made for him ; 
and then the furniture ! The most of that must be sold 
to pay Sir Abraham Haphazard for sitting up till twelve 
at night. Mr. Harding was strangely ignorant as to 
lawyers’ bills. He had no idea, from twenty pounds 
to two thousand, as to the sum ‘ in which he was in- 
debted for legal assistance. True, he had called in no 
lawyer himself ; true, he had been no consenting party 
to the employment of either Cox and Cummins, or Sir 
Abraham ; he had never been consulted on such mat- 
ters; — the archdeacon had managed all this himself, 
never for a moment suspecting that Mr. Harding would 
take upon him to end the matter in a way of his own. 
Had the lawyers’ bills been ten thousand pounds, Mr. 
Harding could not have helped it ; but he was not on 
that account disposed to dispute his own liability. The 
question never occurred to him. But it did occur to 
him that he had very little money at his banker’s, that 
he could receive nothing further from the hospital, and 
that the sale of the furniture was his only resource. 

‘‘ Not all, papa,” said Eleanor, pleadingly. 

“Not quite all, my dear,” said he; “that is, if we 
can help it. We must have a little at Crabtree ; — but 
it c 1 only be a little. We must put a bold front on 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 


233 


it, Nelly; it is n’t easy to come down from affluence 
to poverty.” 

And so they planned their future mode of life ; the 
father taking comfort from the reflection that his 
daughter would soon be freed from it, and she resolv- 
ing that her father would soon have in her own house 
a ready means of escape from the solitude of the Crab- 
tree vicarage. 

When the archdeacon left his wife and father-in-law 
at the Chapter Coffee House to go to Messrs. Cox and 
Cummins, he had no very defined idea of what he had 
to do when he got there. Gentlemen when at law, or 
in any way engaged in matters requiring legal assist- 
ance, are very apt to go to their lawyers without much 
absolute necessity. Gentlemen when doing so, are apt 
to describe such attendance as quite compulsory, and 
very disagreeable. The lawyers, on the other hand, 
do not at all see the necessity, though they quite agree 
as. to the disagreeable nature of the visit; — gentlemen 
when so engaged are usually somewhat gravelled to 
finding nothing to say to their learned friends ; they 
generally talk a little politics, a little weather, ask some 
few foolish questions about their suit, and then with- 
draw, having passed half an hour in a small dingy 
waiting-room, in company with some junior assistant- 
clerk, and ten minutes with the members of the firm. 
The business is then over for which the gentleman has 
come up to London, probably a distance of a hundred 
and fifty miles. To be sure he goes to the play, and 
dines at his friend’s club, and has a bachelor’s liberty 
and bachelor’s recreation for three or four days ; and he 
could not probably plead the desire of such gratifica* 
tions as a reason to his wife for a trip to Londor.; 


234 


THE WARDEN. 


Married ladies, when your husbands find they are 
positively obliged to attend their legal advisers, the 
nature of the duty to be performed is generally of this 
description. 

The archdeacon would not have dreamt of leaving 
London without going to Cox and Cummins ; and yet 
he had nothing to say to them. The game was up ; 
he plainly saw that Mr. Harding in this matter was not 
to be moved ; his only remaining business on this head 
was to pay the bill and have done with it : and I think 
it may be taken for granted, that whatever the cause 
may be that takes a gentleman to a lawyer’s chambers, 
he never goes there to pay his bill. 

Dr. Grantly, however, in the eyes of Messrs. Cox 
and Cummins, represented the spiritualities of the dio- 
cese of Barchester, as Mr. Chadwick did the temporal- 
ities, and was, therefore, too great a man to undergo 
the half-hour in the clerk's room. It will not be neces- 
sary that we should listen to the notes of sorrow in 
which the archdeacon bewailed to Mr. Cox the weak- 
ness of his father-in-law, and the end of all their hopes 
of triumph ; nor need we repeat the various exclama- 
tions of surprise with which the mournful intelligence 
was received. No tragedy occurred, though Mr. Cox, 
a short and somewhat bull-necked man, was very near 
a fit of apoplexy when he first attempted to ejaculate 
that fatal word — resign! 

Over and over again did Mr. Cox attempt to en- 
force on the archdeacon the propriety of urging on Mr. 
Warden the madness of the deed he was about to do. 

Eight hundred a year! ” said Mr. Cox. 

“ And nothing whatever to do ! ” said Mr. Cummins, 
who hc>d joined the conference. 


THE WARDEN RESIGNS. 


235 


“No private fortune, I believe,” said Mr. Cox. 

“ Not a shilling,” said Mr. Cummins, in a very low 
voice, shaking his head. 

“ I never heard of such a case in all my experience,” 
said Mr. Cox. 

“ Eight hundred a year, and as nice a house as any 
gentleman could wish to hang up his hat in,” said Mr. 
Cummins. 

“ And an unmarried daughter, I believe,” said Mr. 
Cox, with much moral seriousness in his tone. The 
archdeacon only sighed as each separate wail was ut- 
tered, and shook his head, signifying that the fatuity 
of some people was past belief. 

“ I ’ll tell you what he might do,” said Mr. Cum- 
mins, brightening up. “ I ’ll tell you how you might 
save it. Let him exchange.” 

“ E:?^change where? ” said the archdeacon. 

“ Exhange for a living. There ’s Quiverful, of Pud- 
dingdale ; — he has twelve children, and would be de- 
lighted to get the hospital. To ‘be sure Puddingdale 
is only four hundred, but that would be saving some- 
thing out of the fire. Mr. Harding would have a 
curate, and still keep three hundred or three hundred 
and fifty.” 

The archdeacon opened his eyes and listened. He 
really thought the scheme might do. 

“ The newspapers,” continued Mr. Cummins, “ might 
hammer away at Quiverful every day for the next six 
months without his minding them.” 

The archdeacon took up his hat, and returned to 
his hotel, thinking the matter over deeply. At any 
•rate he would sound Quiverful. A man with twelve 
children would do much to double his income.^ 


CHAPTER XX. 


FAREWELL. 

On the morning after Mr. Harding’s return home 
he received a note from the bishop full of affection, 
condolence, and praise. “ Pray come to me at once,” 
wrote the bishop, “ that we may see what had better 
be done ; as to the hospital, I will not say a word to 
dissuade you ; but I don’t like your going to Crabtree. 
At any rate, come to me at once.” 

Mr. Harding did go to him at once ; and long and 
confidential was the consultation between the two old 
friends. There they sat together the whole long day, 
plotting to get the better of the archdeacon, and to 
carry out little schemes of their own, which they knew 
would be opposed by the whole weight of his authority. 

The bishop’s first idea was, that Mr. Harding, if left 
to himself, would certainly starve, — not in the figura- 
tive sense in which so many of our ladies and gentle- 
men do starve on incomes from one to five hundred a 
year ; not that he would be starved as regarded dress 
coats, port wine, and pocket-money ; but that he would 
positively perish of inanition for want of bread. 

“ How is a man to live when he gives up all his 
income? ” said the bishop to himself. And then the 
good-natured little man began to consider how his 
friend might be best rescued from a death so horrid . 
and pai’^ful. 


FAREWELL. 


237 


His first proposition to Mr. Harding was, that they 
should live together at the palace. He, the bishop, 
positively assured Mr. Harding that he wanted another 
resident chaplain; — not a young, working chaplain, 
but a steady, middle-aged chaplain ; one who would 
dine and drink a glass of wine with him, talk about the 
archdeacon, and poke the fire. The bishop did not 
positively name all these duties, but he gave Mr. Hard- 
ing to understand that such would be the nature of the 
service required. 

It was not without much difficulty that Mr. Harding 
made his friend see that this would not suit him ; that 
he could not throw up the bishop’s preferment, and 
then come and hang on at the bishop’s table ; that he 
could not allow people to say of him that it was an 
easy matter to abandon his own income, as he was able 
to sponge on that of another person. He succeeded, 
however, in explaining that the plan would not do, and 
then the bishop brought forward another which he had 
in his sleeve. He, the bishop, had in his will left cer- 
tain moneys to Mr. Harding’s two daughters, imagin- 
ing that Mr. Harding would himself want no such as- 
sistance during his own lifetime. This legacy amounted 
to three thousand pounds each, duty free ; and he now 
pressed it as a gift on his friend. 

“ The girls, you know,” said he, will have it just 
the same when you ’re gone, — and they won’t want it 
sooner, — and. as for the interest during my lifetime, it 
is n’t worth talking about. I have more than enough.” 

With much difficulty and heartfelt sorrow, Mr. Hard- 
ing refused also this offer. No; his wish was to sup- 
port himself, however poorly ; — not t ' be supported 
on the charity of any one. It was h :d ''o the 


238 


THE WARDEN. 


bishop understand this ; it was hard to make him com< 
prehend that the only real favour he could confer was 
the continuation of his independent friendship. But 
at last even this was done. At any rate, thought the 
bishop, he will come and dine with me from time to 
time, and if he be absolutely starving I shall see it. 

Touching the precentorship, the bishop was clearly 
of opinion that it could be held without the other situ- 
ation ; — an opinion from which no one differed ; and 
it was therefore soon settled among all the parties con- 
cerned, that Mr. Harding should still be the precentor 
of the cathedral. 

On the day following Mr. Harding’s return, the 
archdeacon reached Plumstead full of Mr. Cummins’s 
scheme regarding Puddingdale and Mr. Quiverful. On 
the very next morning he drove over to Puddingdale, 
and obtained the full consent of the wretched clerical 
Priam, who was endeavouring to feed his poor Hecuba 
and a dozen of Hectors on the small proceeds of his 
ecclesiastical kingdom. Mr. Quiverful had no doubts 
as to the legal rights of the warden; his conscience 
would be quite clear as to accepting the income ; and 
as to the Jupiter, he begged to assure the archdeacon 
that he was quite indifferent to any emanations from 
the profane portion of the periodical press. 

Having so far succeeded, he next sounded the 
bishop ; but here he was astonished by most unex- 
pected resistance. The bishop did not think it would 
do. “Not do? Why not? ” and seeing that his father 
was not shaken, he repeated the question in a severer 
form : “ Why not do, my lord? ” 

His lordship looked very unhappy, and shuffled 
in his chair, but still did n’t give way. He 


FAREWELL. 


239 


thought Puddingdale would n’t do for Mr. Harding ; 
it was too far from Barchester. 

Oh! of course he ’ll have a curate.” 

The bishop also thought that Mr. Quiverful would n’t 
do for the hospital ; such an exchange would n’t look 
well at such a time ; and, when pressed harder, he de- 
clared he did n’t think Mr. Harding would accept pf 
Puddingdale under any circumstances. 

“ How is he to live? ” demanded the archdeacon. 

The bishop, with tears in his eyes, declared that he 
had not the slightest conception how life was to be sus- 
tained within him at all. 

The archdeacon then left his father, and went down 
to the hospital ; but Mr. Harding would n’t listen at 
all to the Puddingdale scheme. To his eyes it had 
no attraction. It savoured of simony, and was likely 
to bring down upon him harder and more deserved 
strictures than any he had yet received. He positively 
declined to become vicar of Puddingdale under any 
circumstances. 

The archdeacon waxed wroth, talked big, and looked 
bigger. He said something about dependence and 
beggary, spoke of the duty every man was under to 
earn his bread, made passing allusions to the follies of 
youth and waywardness of age, as though Mr. Harding 
were afflicted by both, and ended by declaring that he 
had done. He felt that he had left no stone unturned 
to arrange matters on the best and easiest footing ; that 
he had, in fact, so arranged them, that he had so man- 
aged that there was no further need of any anxiety in 
the matter. And how had he been paid ? His advice 
had been systematically rejected; he had been not . 
only slighted, but distrusted and avoided; he and 


240 


THE WARDEN. 


measures had been utterly thrown over, as had been 
Sir Abraham, who, he had reason to know, was much 
pained at what had occurred. He now found it was 
useless to interfere any further, and he should retire. 
If any further assistance were required from him, he 
would probably be called on, and should be again 
happy to come forward. And so he left the hospital, 
and has not since entered it from that day to this. 

And here we must take leave of Archdeacon Grantly. 
We fear that he is represented in these pages as being 
worse than he is; but we have had to do with his 
foibles, and not with his virtues. We have seen only 
the weak side of the man, and have lacked the oppor- 
tunity of bringing him forward on his strong ground. 
That he is a man somewhat too fond of his own way, 
and not sufficiently scrupulous in his manner of achiev- 
ing it, his'best friends cannot deny. That he is bjgoted 
in favour, not so much of his doctrines as of his cloth, 
is also true. And it is true that the possession of a 
large income is a desire that sits near his heart. Never- 
theless, the archdeacon is a gentleman and a man of 
conscience. He spends his money liberally, and does 
the work he has to do with the best of his ability. He 
improves the tone of society of those among whom he 
lives. His aspirations are of a healthy, if not of the 
highest, kind. Though never an austere man, he up- 
holds propriety of conduct both by example and pre- 
cept. He is generous to the poor, and hospitable to 
the rich ; in matters of religion he is sincere, and yet 
no Pharisee ; he is in earnest, and yet no fanatic. On 
the whole, the Archdeacon of Barchester is a man do- 
ing more good than harm, — a man to be furthered and 
f upported, though perhaps also to be controlled ; and 


FAREWELL. 


241 


it is matter of regret to us that the course of our nar- 
rative has required that we should see more of his weak- 
ness than his strength. 

Mr. Harding allowed himself no rest till everything 
was prepared for his departure from the hospital. It 
may be as well to mention that he was not driven to 
the stern necessity of selhng all his furniture. He had 
been quite in earnest in his intention to do so, but it 
was soon made known to him that the claims of Messrs. 
Cox and Cummins made no such step obligatory. The 
archdeacon had thought it wise to make use of the 
threat of the lawyer’s bill, to frighten his father-in-law 
into compliance; but he had no intention to saddle 
Mr. Harding with costs which had been incurred by 
no means exclusively for his benefit. The amount of 
the bill was added to the diocesan account, and was, 
in fact, paid out of the bishop’s pocket, without any 
consciousness on the part of his lordship. A great 
part of his furniture he did resolve to sell, having no 
other means to dispose of it ; and the ponies and car- 
riage were transferred, by private contract, to the use 
of an old maiden lady in the city. 

For his present use Mr. Harding took a lodging in 
Barchester, and thither were conveyed such articles as 
he wanted for daily use, — ^his music, books, and instru- 
ments, his own arm-chair, and Eleanor’s pet sofa ; her 
teapoy and his cellaret, and also the slender but still 
sufficient contents of his wine-cellar. Mrs. Grantly 
had much wished that her sister would reside at Plum- 
stead till her father’s house at Crabtree should be ready 
for her ; but Eleanor herself strongly resisted th‘ - pro- 
posal. It was in vain urged upon her, that a lady in 
lodgings cost more than a gentleman ; and that, ■•an^er 
16 


242 


THE WARDEN. 


her father’s present circumstances, such an expense 
should be avoided. Eleanor had not pressed her father 
to give up the hospital in order that she might live at 
Plumstead Rectory, and he alone in his Barchester 
lodgings ; nor did Eleanor think that she would be 
treating a certain gentleman very fairly, if she betook 
herself to the house which he would be the least desir- 
ous of entering of any in the county. So she got a 
little bedroom for herself behind the sitting-room, and 
just over the little back parlour of the chemist, with 
whom they were to lodge. There was somewhat of a 
savour of senna softened by peppermint about the 
place ; but, on the whole, the lodgings were clean and 
comfortable. 

The day had been fixed for the migration of the ex- 
warden, and all Barchester were in a state of excitement 
on the subject. Opinion was much divided as to the 
propriety of Mr. Harding’s conduct. The mercantile 
part of the community, the mayor and corporation, and 
council, also most of the ladies, were loud in his praise. 
Nothing could be more noble, nothing more generous, 
nothing more upright. But the gentry were of a dif- 
ferent way of thinking, — especially the lawyers and the 
clergymen. They said such conduct was weak and 
undignified; that Mr. Harding evinced a lamentable 
want of esprit de corps, as well as courage ; and that 
such an abdication must do much harm, and could do 
but little good. 

On the evening before he left, he summoned all the 
bedesmen into his parlour to wish them good-bye. 
With Bunce he had been in frequent communication 
since his return from London, and had been at much 
pain^ to explain to the old man the cause of his resig- 


' FAREWELL. 


243 


nation, without in any way prejudicing the position of 
his successor. The others, also, he had seen more or 
less frequently ; and had heard from most of them sep- 
arately some expression of regret at his departure ; but 
he had postponed his farewell till the last evening. 

He now bade the maid put wine and glasses on the 
table ; and had the chairs arranged around the room ; 
and sent Bunce to each of the men to request they 
would come and say farewell to their late warden. 
Soon the noise of aged scuffling feet was heard upon 
the gravel and in the little hall, and the eleven men 
who were enabled to leave their rooms were assembled. 

“ Come in, my friends, come in,” said the warden. 
He was still warden then. '' Come in, and sit down 
and he took the hand of Abel Handy, who was the 
nearest to him, and led the limping grumbler to a chair. 
The others followed slowly and bashfully ; the infirm, 
the lame, and the blind : poor wretches ! who had been 
so happy, had they but known it! Now their aged 
faces were covered with shame, and every kind word 
from their master was a coal of fire burning on their 
heads. 

When first the news had reached them that Mr. 
Harding was going to leave the hospital, it had been 
received with a kind of triumph. His departure was, 
as it were, a prelude to success. He had admitted his 
want of right to the money about which they were dis- 
puting ; and as it did not belong to him, of course it 
did to them. The one hundred a year to each of them 
was actually becoming a reality. Abel Handy was 
a hero, and Bunce a faint-hearted sycophant, worthy 
neither honoiur nor fellowship. But other tidings soon 
made their way into the old men’s rooms. It wat fflrst 


244 


THE WARDEN. 


notified to them that the income abandoned by Mr. 
Harding would not come to them ; and these accounts 
were confirmed by attorney Finney. They were then 
informed that Mr. Harding’s place would be at once 
filled by another. That the new warden could not be 
a kinder man they all knew ; that he would be a less 
friendly one most suspected ; and then came the bitter 
information that, from the moment of Mr. Harding’s 
departure, the twopence a day, his own peculiar gift, 
must of necessity be withdrawn. 

And this was to be the end of all their mighty strug- 
gle, — of their fight for their rights, — of their petition, 
and their debates and their hopes! They were to 
change the best of masters for a possible bad one, and 
to lose twopence a day each man ! No ; unfortunate 
as this was, it was not the worst, or nearly the worst, 
as will just now be seen. 

“ Sit down, sit down, my friends,” said the warden ; 
“ I want to say a word to you, and to drink your 
healths, before I leave you. Come up here. Moody, 
here is a chair for you; come, Jonathan Crumple.” 
And by degrees he got the men to be seated. It was 
not surprising that they should hang back with faint 
hearts, having returned so much kindness with such 
deep ingratitude. Last of all of them came Bunce, 
and with sorrowful mien and slow step got into his ac- 
customed seat near the fireplace. 

When they were all in their places, Mr. Harding rose 
to address them ; and then finding himself not quite at 
home on his legs, he sat down again. “ My dear old 
friends,” said he, “ you all know that I am going to 
leave you.” 

^here was a sort of murmur ran round the room, 


FAREWELL. 


245 


intended, perhaps, to express regret at his departure ; 
but it was but a murmur, and might have meant that 
or anything else. 

“ There has been lately some misunderstanding be- 
tween us. You have thought, I believe, that you did 
not get all that you were entitled to, and that the funds 
of the hospital have not been properly disposed of. 
As for me, I cannot say what should be the disposition 
of these moneys, or how they should be managed, and 
I have therefore thought it best to go.” 

We never wanted to drive your reverence out of it,” 
said Handy. 

“No, indeed, your reverence,” said Skulpit. “We 
never thought it would come to this. When I signed 
the petition, — that is, I did n’t sign it, because ” 

“ Let his reverence speak, can’t you? ” said Moody. 

“No,” continued Mr. Harding; “I am sure you 
did not wish to turn me out ; but I thought it best to 
leave you. I am not a very good hand at a lawsuit, 
as you may all guess ; and when it seemed necessary 
that our ordinary quiet mode of living should be dis- 
turbed, I thought it better to go. I am neither angry 
nor offended with any man in the hospital.” 

Here Bunce uttered a kind of groan, very clearly 
expressive of disagreement. 

“ I am neither angry nor displeased with any man 
in the hospital,” repeated Mr. Harding, emphatically. 
“ If any man has been wrong, — and I don’t say any 
man has, — he has erred through wrong advice. In this 
country all are entitled to look for their own rights, 
and you have done no more. As long as your inter- 
ests and my interests were at variance, I could give 
you no counsel on this subject; but the conn|t*‘ 1 


246 


THE WARDEN. 


between us has ceased ; my income can no longer de- 
pend on your doings, and therefore, as I leave you, I 
venture to offer to you my advice.” 

The men all declared that they would from hence- 
forth be entirely guided by Mr. Harding’s opinion in 
their affairs. 

” Some gentleman will probably take my place here 
very soon, and I strongly advise you to be prepared to 
receive him in a kindly spirit, and to raise no further 
question among yourselves as to the amount of his in- 
come. Were you to succeed in lessening what he has 
to receive, you would not increase your own allowance. 
The surplus would not go to you. Your wants are ad- 
equately provided for, and your position could hardly 
be improved.” 

'' God bless your reverence, we knows it,” said 
Spriggs. 

“ It ’s all true, your reverence,” said Skulpit. We 
sees it all now.” 

“Yes, Mr. Harding,” said Bunce, opening his mouth 
for the first time ; “ I believe they do understand it 
now, — now that they ’ve driven from under the same 
roof with them such a master as not one of them will 
ever know again. Now that they ’re like to be in sore 
want of a friend.” . 

“ Come, come, Bunce,” said Mr. Harding, blowing his 
nose, and manoeuvring to wipe his eyes at the same time. 

“ Oh, as to that,” said Handy, “ we none of us never 
wanted to do Mr. Harding no harm. If he ’s going 
now, it ’s not along of us ; and I don’t see for what 
Mr. Bunce speaks up agen us that way.” 

“You ’ve ruined yourselves, and you ’ve ruined me 
to< and that ’s, why,” said Bunce. 


FAREWELL. 


247 


''Nonsense, Bunce,” said Mr. Harding; "there ’s 
nobody ruined at all. I hope you ’ll let me leave you 
all friends. I hope you ’ll all drink a glass of wine in 
friendly feeling with me and with one another. You ’ll 
have a good friend, I don’t doubt, in your new warden ; 
and if ever you want any other, why after all I ’m 
not going so far off but that I shall sometimes see 
you.” Then, having finished his speech, Mr. Harding 
filled all the glasses, and himself handed each a glass 
to the men round him, and raising his own, said, — 

" God bless you all ! you have my heartfelt wishes 
for your welfare. I hope you may live contented, and 
die trusting in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thankful to 
Almighty God for the good things he has given you. 
God bless you, my friends! ” And Mr. Harding drank 
his wine. 

Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than 
the first, passed round the circle, and this time it was 
intended to imply a blessing on Mr. Harding. It had, 
however, but little cordiality in it. Poor old men I how 
could they be cordial with their sore consciences and 
shamed faces? how could they bid God bless him 
with hearty voices and a true benison, knowing, as 
they did, that their vile cabal had driven him from his 
happy home, and sent him in his old age to seek shel- 
ter under a strange roof-tree? They did their best, 
however ; they drank their wine, and withdrew. 

As they left the hall-door, Mr. Harding shook hands 
with each of the men, and spoke a kind word to them 
about their individual cases and ailments ; and so they 
departed, answering his questions in the fewest words, 
and retreated to their dens, a sorrowful repentant crew. 

All but Bunce, who still remained to make 1^^.^.^ 


248 


THE WARDEN. 


farewell. “There 's poor old Bell,” said Mr. Hard- 
ing ; “ I must n’t go without saying a word to him ; 
come through with me, Bunce, and bring the wine with 
you and so they went through to the men’s cottages, 
and found the old man propped up as usual in his bed. 

“ I ’ve come to say good-bye to you, Bell,” said Mr. 
Harding, speaking loud, for the old man was deaf. 

“ And are you going away, then, really? ” asked Bell. 

“ Indeed I am, and I ’ve brought you a glass of 
wine ; so that we may part friends, as we lived, you 
know.” 

The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking 
hands, and drank it eagerly. “ God bless you. Bell ! ” 
said Mr. Harding ; “ good-bye, my old friend.” 

“ And so you ’re really going? ” the man again asked. 

“ Indeed I am. Bell.” 

The poor old bed-ridden creature still kept Mr. 
Harding’s hand in his own, and the warden thought 
that he had met with something like warmth of feeling 
in the one of all his subjects from whom it was the 
least likely to be expected ; for poor old Bell had nearly 
outlived all human feelings. “ And your reverence,” 
said he, and then he paused, while his old palsied head 
shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sank lower 
within his jaws, and his glazy eye gleamed with a mo- 
mentary light ; “ and your reverence, shall we get the 
hundred a year, then? ” 

How gently did Mr. Harding try to extinguish the 
false hope of money which had been so wretchedly 
raised to disturb the quiet of the dying man! One 
other week and his mortal coil would be shuffled off. 
In one short week would God resume his soul, and set 

n for its irrevocable doom. Seven more tedious 


FAREWELL. 


249 


days and nights of senseless inactivity, and all would 
be over for poor Bell in this world. And yet, with 
his last audible words, he was demanding his moneyed 
rights, and asserting himself to be the proper heir of 
John Hiram’s Bounty? Not on him, poor sinner as he 
was, be the load of such sin! 

Mr. Harding returned to his parlour, meditating with 
a sick heart on what he had seen, and Bunce with 
him. We will not describe the parting of these two 
good men, for good men they were. It was in vain 
that the late warden endeavoured to comfort the heart 
of the old bedesman. Poor old Bunce felt that his 
days of comfort were gone. The hospital had to him 
been a happy home, but it could be so no longer. He 
had had honour there, and friendship ; he had recog- 
nised his master, and been recognised ; all his wants, 
both of soul and body, had been supplied, and he had 
been a happy man. He wept grievously as he parted 
from his friend, and the tears of an old man are bitter. 

It is all over for me in this world,” said he, as he 
gave the last squeeze to Mr. Harding’s hand ; I have 
now to forgive those who have injured me ; — and to 
die.” 

And so the old man went out, and then Mr. Hard- 
ing gave way to his grief and wept aloud. 




CHAPTER XXI. 


CONCLUSION. 

Our tale is now done, and it only remains to us to 
collect the scattered threads of our little story, and to 
tie them into' a seemly knot. This will not be a work 
of labour, either to the author or to his readers. We 
have not to deal with many personages, or with stirring 
events, and were it not for the custom of the thing, we 
might leave it to the imagination of all concerned to 
conceive how affairs at Barchester arranged themselves. 

On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr. 
Harding, at an early hour, walked out of the hospital, 
with his daughter under his arm, and sat down quietly 
to breakfast at his lodgings over the chemist’s shop. 
There was no parade about his departure ; no one, not 
even Bunce, was there to witness it ; had he walked 
to the apothecary’s thus early to get a piece of court 
plaster, or a box of lozenges, he could not have done 
it with less appearance of an important movement. 
There was a tear in Eleanor’s eye as she passed through 
the big gateway and over the bridge ; but Mr. Hard- 
ing walked with an elastic step, and entered his new 
abode with a pleasant face. 

“Now, my dear,” said he, “you have everything 
ready, and you can make tea here just as nicely as in 
the parlour at the hospital.” So Eleanor took off her 


CONCLUSION. 


251 


bonnet and made the tea. After this manner did the 
late Warden of Barchester Hospital accomplish his flit- 
ting, and change his residence. 

It was not long before the archdeacon brought his 
father to discuss the subject of a new warden. Of 
course he looked upon the nomination as his own, and 
he had in his eye three or four fitting candidates, see- 
ing that Mr. Cummins’s plan as to the living of Pud- 
dingdale could not be brought to bear. How can I 
describe the astonishment which confounded him, when 
his father declared that he would appoint no successor 
to Mr. Harding? ‘Mf we can get the matter set to 
rights, Mr. Harding will return,” said the bishop ; 
“ and if we cannot, it will be wrong to put any other 
gentleman into so cruel a position.” 

It was in vain that the archdeacon argued and lec- 
tured, and even threatened; in vain he-my-lorded his 
poor father in his sternest manner ; in vain his ” good 
heavens!” were ejaculated in at one that might have 
moved a whole synod, let alone one weak and aged 
bishop. Nothing could induce his father to fill up the 
vacancy caused by Mr. Harding’s retirement. 

Even John Bold would have pitied the feelings with 
which the archdeacon returned to Plumstead. The 
church was falling, nay, already in ruins ; its dignitaries 
were yielding without a struggle before the blows of 
its antagonists ; and one of its most respected bishops, 
his own father, — the man considered by all the world 
as being in such matters under his, Dr. Grantly’s con- 
trol, — had positively resolved to capitulate, and own 
himself vanquished ! 

And how fared the hospital under this resolve of its 
visitor? Badly indeed. It was now some years since 


THE WARDEN. 


252 

Mr. Harding left it, and the warden’s house is still 
tenantless. Old Bell has died, and Bill Gazy ; the 
one-eyed Spriggs has drunk himself to death, and three 
others of the twelve have been gathered into the church- 
yard mould. Six have gone, and the six vacancies re- 
main unfilled! Yes, six have died, with no kind friend 
to solace their last moments, with no wealthy neigh- 
bour to administer comforts and ease the stings of 
death. Mr. Harding, indeed, did not desert them ; 
from him they had such consolation as a dying man 
may receive from his Christian pastor ; but it was the 
occasional kindness of a stranger which ministered to 
them, and not the constant presence of a master, a 
neighbour, and a friend. 

Nor were those who remained better off than those 
who died. Dissensions rose among them, and contests 
for pre-eminence ; and then they began to understand 
that soon one among them would be the last, — some 
one wretched being would be alone there in that now 
comfortless hospital, — the miserable relic of what had 
once been so good and so comfortable. 

The building of the hospital itself has not been 
allowed to go to ruins. Mr. Chadwick, who still holds 
his stewardship, and pays the accruing rents into an 
account opened at a bank for the purpose, sees to that ; 
but the whole place has become disordered and ugly. 
The warden’s garden is a wretched wilderness, the 
drive and paths are covered with weeds, the flower- 
beds are bare, and the unshorn lawn is now a mass of 
long damp grass and unwholesome moss. The beauty 
of the place is gone; its attractions have withered. 
Alas ! a very few years since it was the prettiest spot in 
BaK 'Ster, and now it is a disgrace to the city. 


CONCLUSION. 


253 


Mr. Harding did not go out to Crabtree Parva. 
An arrangement was made which respected the home- 
stead of Mr. Smith and his happy family, and put Mr. 
Harding into possession of a small living within the 
walls of the city. It is the smallest possible parish, 
containing a part of the Cathedral Close and a few 
old houses adjoining. The church is a singular little 
Gothic building, perched over a gateway, through 
which the Close is entered, and is approached by a 
flight of stone steps which leads down under the arch- 
way of the gate. It is no bigger than an ordinary 
room, — perhaps twenty-seven feet long by eighteen 
wide, — but still it is a perfect church. It contains an 
old carved pulpit and reading-desk, a tiny altar under 
a window filled with dark old-coloured glass, a font, 
some half-dozen pews, and perhaps a dozen seats for 
the poor ; and also a vestry. The roof is high-pitched, 
and of black bid oak, and the three large beams which 
support it run down to the side walls, and terminate 
in grotesquely carved faces, — two devils and an angel 
on one side, two angels and a devil on the other. Such 
is the church of St. Cuthbert at Barchester, of which 
Mr. Harding became rector, with a clear income of 
seventy-five pounds a year. 

Here he performs afternoon service every Sunday, 
and administers the Sacrament once in every three 
months. His audience is not large; and, had they 
been so, he could not have accommodated them. But 
enough come to fill his six pews, and, on the front seat 
of those devoted to the poor is always to be seen our 
old friend Mr. Bunce, decently arrayed in his bedes- 
man’s gown. j 

Mr. Harding is still precentor of Barchester it 


THE WARDEN. 


254 

is very rarely the case that those who attend the Sun- 
day morning service miss the gratification of hearing 
him chant the Litany, as no other man in England can 
do it. He is neither a discontented nor an unhappy 
man. He still inhabits the lodgings to which he went 
on leaving the hospital, but he now has them to him- 
self. Three months after that time Eleanor became 
Mrs. Bold, and of course removed to her husband’s 
house. 

There were some difficulties to be got over on the 
occasion of the marriage. The archdeacon, who could 
not so soon overcome his grief, would not be persuaded 
to grace the ceremony with his presence, but he allowed 
his wife and children to be there. The marriage took 
place in the cathedral, and the bishop himself offici- 
ated. It was the last occasion on which he ever did 
so ; and, though he still lives, it is not probable that 
he will ever do so again. 

Not long after the marriage, perhaps six months, 
when Eleanor’s bridal-honours were fading, and per- 
sons were beginning to call her Mrs. Bold without 
twittering, the archdeacon consented to meet John 
Bold at a dinner-party, and since that time they have 
become almost friends. The archdeacon firmly be- 
lieves that his brother-in-law was, as a bachelor, an in- 
fidel, an unbeliever in the great truths of our religion ; 
but that matrimony has opened his eyes, as it has those 
of others. And Bold is equally inclined to think that 
time has softened the asperities of the archdeacon’s 
character. Friends though they are, they do not often 
revert to the feud of the hospital. 

Mr. Harding, we say, is not an unhappy man. He 
Veeps his lodgings, but they are of little use to him, ex- 


CONCLUSION. 


255 


/»• 




cept as being the one spot on earth which he calls his 
own. His time is spent chiefly at his daughter’s or at 
the palace ; he is never left alone, even should he wish 
to be so ; and within a twelvemonth of Eleanor’s mar- 
riage his determination to live at his own lodging had 
been so far broken through and abandoned that he con- 
sented to have his violoncello permanently removed to 
his daughter’s house. 

Every other day a message is brought to him from 
the bishop. “ The bishop’s compliments, and his lord- 
ship is not very well to-day, and he hopes Mr. Harding 
will dine with him.” This bulletin as to the old man’s 
health is a myth ; for though he is over eighty he is 
never ill, and will probably die some day, as a spark 
goes out, gradually and without a struggle. Mr. Hard- 
ing does dine with him very often, which means going 
to the palace at three and remaining till ten; and 
whenever he does not the bishop whines, and says that 
the port wine is corked, and complains that nobody 
attends to him, and frets himself off to bed an hour 
before his time. 

It was long before the people of Barchester forgot 
to call Mr. Harding by his long well-known name of 
Warden. It had become so customary to say Mr. 
Warden that it was not easily dropped. “No, no,” 
he always says when so addressed, “ not warden now, 
only precentor.” 






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